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CERTAIN  PEOPLE 
OF  IMPORTANCE 


Books  by  Kathleen  N orris 


Certain  People  of  Importance 

Harriet  and  the  Piper 

Josselyn's  Wife 

Lucretia  Lombard 

Martie,  the  Unconquered 

Mother 

Poor,  Dear  Margaret  Kirby 

Saturday's  Child 

Sisters 

The  Beloved  Woman 

The  Heart  of  Rachael 

The  Rich  Mrs.  Burgoyne 

The  Story  of  Julia  Page 

The  Treasure 

Undertow 


Certain  People  of  Importance 


Reuben  Crabtree  m.  Hannah  Pratt 


Lulu    1'i.iN    m.  Rmli.i    Klli  itl 


May  m.  Stephen  Brewer 


Robert  J.  m.  Ella  Sewall 
Reuben  (Bobo) 


Ahce  m.  Frank  Babcock 
«,       |  ,3M- 


Des.sy  Tate  m.  George 


I  l         l       l  I 

IIil.l.-ar.l      Clifford      Lloyd      Stuart      Mavbelle 

1888-       1839-     1891-     1893-       1896- 


I         i         i 

Vera  Vernon        Alma 

1889-  1891-  1894- 


David  (Taffy) 

1891- 

GENEALOGY  OF  THE  CRABTREE   FAMILA 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE 
OF  IMPORTANCE 


BY 
KATHLEEN  NORRIS 


c 


#L 


GARDEN   CITY  NEW  YOKK 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

KATHLEEN    NORRIS 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 
INTO    FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING    THE    SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


TO 

C  I  G  I 

I909-I922 

If  she  is  fair — the  shining  yacht  that  moves, 
Between  the  blue  sky  and  the  bluer  bay, 
Erect  and  gallant  on  her  virgin  way 

Into  the  unknown  seas  that  yet  she  loves  — 

Then  what  is  this  more  seasoned  ship,  who  hails 

From  the  long  cruise  of  years — hard  years  and  bright, 
To  find  again  the  shining  harbour  light 

In  her  old  port,  whence  first  she  tried  her  sails? 


If) 
0 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE 
OF  IMPORTANCE 


Certain  People  of  Importance 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  beginnings  of  the  family  in  America  are  lost,  un- 
fortunately, in  the  obscurity  that  hangs  over  the  old 
records  and  the  older  homestead  of  a  few  insignificant 
New  England  villages.  That  there  were  Crabtrees  in  America 
before  the  war  of  the  Revolution  is  provable,  but  it  has  never 
been  quite  easy  to  connect  the  Charlestown  and  the  Springfield 
families  of  that  name  with  that  of  one  Reuben  Crabtree,  a 
wheel-maker  of  Mendon,  Massachusetts,  whose  marriage  to 
Hannah  Pratt  of  Bridgewater,  Connecticut,  took  place  in  the 
year  1760. 

Of  Hannah  Pratt  we  catch  occasional  glimpses  in  the  mourn- 
ful biography  of  her  sister,  Eliza,  whose  marriage  to  a  mission- 
ary, whose  heroic  labours  in  the  mission  fields  of  darkest  Sara- 
wan,  and  whose  edifying  death,  were  made  the  subject  matter 
of  a  small  green  cloth-bound  volume  printed  in  the  year  1791. 
Eliza,  whose  life  as  the  fourth  wife  of  an  extremely  stern  and 
orthodox  clergyman  was  fraught  with  bodily  miseries  only 
partially  mitigated  by  the  tremendous  spiritual  benefits  she 
enjoyed  in  his  company,  duly  added  three  languishing  babes  to 
his  family  of  thirteen  motherless  children,  before  further  duly 
adding  her  name  quietly  and  meekly  to  the  other  names  on  his 
family  tombstone. 

But  before  this,  in  her  occasional  letters,  she  frequently 
mentions  her  sister,  the  wife  of  Reuben  Crabtree,  the  maker  of 
wheels,  who  remained  quietly  in  the  little,  plain-faced  house 
under  the  magnificent  elms  behind  the  forge,  and  is  never 
addressed  by  the  missionary's  wife  except  in  connection  with 
domestic  calamities. 

Eliza,  writing  courageously  from  Sarawan  of  fire,  pestilence, 
and  the  attacks  of  head-hunters,  does  not  fail  to  sympathize 


2      CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

with  Hannah,  upon  the  loss  of  her  "fine  boys."  "Safer,  ah,  safer 
far,  with  the  Comforter  who  never  faileth  than  are  the  four  left 
you!"  says  Eliza,  passionately,  perhaps  thinking  of  her  own  lost 
darlings.  She  also  commiserates  her  sister  upon  the  failure  of 
her  husband's  business  hopes;  the  Reuben  Crabtree  family 
had  migrated  to  Mendon  again,  after  an  unsuccessful  ex- 
perience in  Bridgewater,  and  from  Mendon  they  presently 
moved  to  Bedford,  New  Hampshire.  Here  a  seventh  child, 
George  William,  was  born,  and  it  was  from  Bedford  that  the 
father  of  the  family,  the  first  Reuben,  went  forth  to  battle 
in  1775. 

He  never  returned,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  widow  married 
again,  for  there  is  no  further  record  of  her  under  the  old  name. 
The  missionary  aunt  came  back,  but  only  to  die  patiently  and 
agonizingly  of  cancer  in  her  own  old  home:  "so  sweet  to  see 
Hannah  and  her  beautiful  children!"  gasps  Eliza,  almost  at  the 
very  end.  She  does  not  mention  their  names  or  ages,  and  we 
find  no  trace  of  George  William  for  some  years.  But  in  1808, 
say  the  Bedford  records,  there  was  the  sale  of  a  small  section  of 
land  from  George  W.  Crabtree  to  William  Elder  for  $161.00, 
and  shortly  afterward  G.  W.  Crabtree  is  married  to  Annie  Bal- 
lard, of  Binghamton,  New  York. 

George  William  Crabtree,  at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  was 
about  thirty-three  years  old:  it  is  possible  that  there  was  an 
earlier  marriage,  for  those  were  lonely  days  for  a  bachelor  whose 
business  of  store-keeper  brought  him  in  contact  with  all  the 
youth  and  beauty  of  his  neighbourhood.  But  of  an  earlier 
marriage  there  is  no  traceable  record,  and  George  apparently 
became  a  settled  and  self-respecting  citizen  rather  late  in  life. 

He  moved  his  Annie  to  the  far  west,  almost  to  Chicago,  and 
in  Lawrence  County  chopped  out  a  clearing  before  his  first  little 
cross-roads  store.  Annie  knew  bitter  cold  in  the  endless  win- 
ters, and  dangers  from  animals,  Indians,  blizzards,  and  famines. 
Her  nine  children  were  born  in  a  rough  log  cabin,  and  five  of 
them  perished  there.  Annie  became  a  lean,  silent,  watchful 
woman,  with  no  words  at  all,  much  less  any  hopes  or  ambitions. 
She  wore  dark  shapeless  homespun  clothes,  and  made  her  own 
soap,  her  own  rough  shoes,  and  her  children's  shoes.  By  the 
flickering  light  of  a  home-made  lamp,  she  taught  her  children 
to  read  and  write,  in  the  winter  evenings,  she  heated  great  pails 
of  water  and  washed  them,  she  read  them  her  mother's  Bible. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     3 

If  she  ever  remembered  lovely  Binghamton,  with  the  lilacs 
in  bloom  on  a  May  morning,  and  church  bells  clanging  in  the 
sunny  air,  she  never  said  so.  If  she  looked  out  at  the  muddy 
loop  of  the  road  between  dark  pines,  the  rough  roofs  of  the  few 
neighbouring  cabins,  and  remembered  the  sunrise  that  was  shin- 
ing down  upon  elms  and  maples,  upon  green  roofs  and  old  white 
houses,  upon  roses  and  trim  fences,  more  than  a  thousand  miles 
away,  she  gave  no  sign.  People  called  the  place  "Crabtree's 
Crossing,"  and  for  twenty-two  years  Annie  Crabtree  knew  no 
other  home. 

Her  son  Reuben,  her  second  child,  was  born  in  April,  18 11. 
Mrs.  Crabtree  had  been  three  days  in  labour  with  the  older  child 
fourteen  months  before,  bearing  successive  convulsions  of 
agony  and  intervening  periods  of  exhaustion  with  only  her 
husband's  company  for  comfort.  The  first  child  had  not  lived, 
and  the  mother,  only  nineteen  at  the  time  of  this  second  ordeal, 
had  experienced  some  terrors  of  anticipation. 

However,  it  proved  mercifully  brief  and  comfortable,  and  in 
the  exquisite  relief  of  being  well  again,  with  the  hard  hour  safely 
over,  and  this  splendid  sturdy  child  to  show  for  it,  Annie  per- 
haps knew  the  first  real  joy  of  her  married  life.  She  idolized 
her  little  "Rube";  she  had  before  this  ceased  to  have  any  partic- 
ular feeling  for  his  father.  Wifehood  in  Annie's  class  and  day 
meant  cooking,  washing,  hurrying,  apologizing,  pacifying;  it 
meant  pleading  for  money  for  schooling  and  shoes;  it  meant 
terrified  defence  of  whimpering  babyhood.  It  meant  physical 
weakness  and  helplessness,  and  under  it,  always  and  forever, 
ran  the  burdens  and  agonies  of  incessant  child-bearing. 

If  she  hadthad  any  feeling  at  all  for  George  William  it  might 
well  have  been  hate,  as  for  the  task-master  who  drove  her  too 
hard,  who  piled  load  after  cruel  load  upon  her,  and  who  never 
spared  her.  Not  once  in  twenty-two  years  did  George  William 
lend  her  the  least  comfort  or  service,  not  once  was  he  tender, 
understanding,  kind.  Not  once  did  he  give  a  son  or  daughter 
anything  that  was  fatherly  or  loving.  When  he  thrashed  the 
children  Annie  writhed  in  silence,  and  when  he  drove  into 
Wabash  occasionally  on  what  she  innocently  supposed  to  be 
important  business  of  the  store,  she  rejoiced  in  a  breathing- 
spell,  a  time  when  she  might  get  the  work  on  little  Annie's  dress 
a  trifle  forward,  or  give  her  girls  and  boys  a  candy-pull,  which 
they  called  a  "molasses  stew." 


4  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Mercifully,  childhood  is  inexacting,  and  the  young  Crab- 
trees  extracted  more  pleasure  from  life  than  seems  believable. 
They  swam  in  the  river,  trapped  and  hunted,  rode  almost  wild 
horses,  ate  heartily  of  the  food  their  flushed  and  weary  mother 
could  hardly  touch,  and  when  the  time  came  they  wooed  or 
were  wooed  and  were  married  in  turn. 

Faded,  silent,  crushed  Mrs.  Crabtree  developed  an  unsus- 
pected feeling  when  her  Rube  selected  for  his  wife  one  Lulu 
Potts;  Rube  was  then  but  twenty-three,  and  the  despised  Lulu 
six  years  younger.  The  "Pottses  of  Lower  Town"  were  dis- 
reputable people,  and  it  was  said  of  them  that  the  girls  "run 
round  the  place  without  much  more  on  'em  than  the  Injuns!" 
Certainly  Lulu's  lean,  oily-faced,  drinking  father  was  not  a 
particularly  desirable  relative-to-be,  and  her  whimpering, 
tremulous  mother  was  not  much  better.  The  smells,  the 
dirt,  the  tin  cans  and  ashes  and  prowling  cats  of  Lower  Town 
were  a  stench  in  the  nostrils  of  Crabtree's  Crossing,  and  the 
Pottses  were  about  the  worst  of  Lower  Town's  degraded  deni- 
zens. But  the  girls,  Jenny  and  Lulu,  were  undeniably  beauti- 
ful, and  at  about  the  time  that  Jenny,  fifteen  years  old,  was 
telling  a  crying  and  vituperative  and  hysterical  story  to  "Sherf" 
Calhoun  about  one  of  the  Crooker  boys,  Lulu  stepped  triumph- 
antly into  the  limelight  with  young  Reuben  Crabtree  for  her  mate. 

All  this  made  Annie  Crabtree  furious.  Her  darling,  the  oldest 
living  child  of  her  heart,  wedded  to  this  blowsy,  handsome, 
noisy  girl,  whose  sister  was  subsequently  married  to  Lem 
Crooker  at  the  point  of  a  gun,  was  horrible  to  her;  and  every 
thing  that  was  clean  and  austere  and  of  New  England  rose  in 
Annie  and  revolted.  She  denounced  her  son  Reuben,  and  they 
never  spoke  to  each  other  again. 

By  this  time  the  railroad  had  come  to  Crabtree's  Crossing, 
and  George  William,  at  sixty,  might  have  become  a  rich  man. 
But  George  William  had  developed  into  a  sort  of  genial,  garru- 
lous town  idol,  stout,  lazy,  good-natured  with  strangers,  and 
always  glad  to  sit  near  the  stove  in  one  of  the  new  stores  that 
lined  the  downtown  streets  and  tell  people  of  the  day  that  he 
and  his  young  wife — "the  finest  woman  God  ever  made,  gentle- 
men!" he  would  interpolate,  with  watering  eyes — had  come  to 
Crabtree's  Crossing  when  it  "warn't  no  more'n  a  strip  of  virgin 
forest." 

Old  Crabtree  was  one  of  the  "characters"  of  the  place,  harm- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE      5 

less  enough  as  far  as  the  world  went.  But,  after  her  bitter 
disappointment  about  her  son,  his  wife  became  somewhat  sickly 
and  complaining  and  their  home  life  was  one  of  trial  and  dis- 
comfort. 

She  never  knew  that  he  gambled,  that  in  one  night  the  fruit  of 
all  their  slaving  years  was  thrown  away.  She  never  heard  the 
men  telling  of  the  night  Rube,  after  all  his  money  was  gone,  and 
when  his  I.  O.  U.'s  had  assumed  an  enormous  size,  put  up  his 
railroad  property  on  Everett's  roulette  wheel.  First  the  lots 
down  by  the  warehouse,  and  then  the  block  next  to  Havens, 
and  then  the  forest  strip,  up  above  town. 

The  red  came  seventeen  times  running,  there  was  a  roar  from 
the  group  of  flushed  and  excited  and  close-packed  men  about 
the  wheel  at  the  twelfth — and  thirteenth — and  fourteenth  time. 
After  that  there  was  stillness,  except  for  Reuben's  hoarse, 
cracked  voice,  barking  out  fresh  hazards.  Everett's  smooth, 
thin,  shaven  face  did  not  change,  except  that  his  eyes  shifted. 
The  room  was  heavy  with  blue  smoke;  it  billowed  against  the 
rafters;  and  the  thick  air  smelled  of  strong  drink  and  men's 
dirty  hair  and  dirty  bodies. 

Dawn  was  breaking  over  the  raw  streets  when  George  Wil- 
liam Crabtree  stumbled  silently  into  the  cool  outer  air;  men 
said  that  he  would  kill  himself.  But  instead  of  that  he  wavered 
home  heavily  to  Annie  and  went  to  bed,  and  said  that  he  was 
ill.  Annie  gave  him  "physic"  and  hot  tea  and  hot  rolls  and 
"bonny  clabber,"  and  some  weeks  later  he  told  her  that  the 
railroad  had  done  him  out  of  his  rights,  but  to  keep  her  mouth 
shut,  because  he  wasn't  done  with  those  fellers  yet. 

Annie  kept  her  mouth  shut  and  worked  and  grieved  and 
cooked  and  swept  as  she  always  had.  Sometimes  she  saw  her 
son  Rube  in  the  village;  a  year  after  his  marriage  she  heard  that 
he  had  moved  west,  with  his  wife.  Her  daughter  Lizzie  mar- 
ried, and  had  children,  and  her  son  Willy  was  killed  on  the  rail- 
roads, and  presently  George  William  died,  "of  the  rapidly  pass- 
ing type  of  our  fine  old  pioneers,"  the  paper  said,  and  then 
Annie  died,  too,  and  the  always  ready  press  had  it  that  friends 
of  this  devoted  pioneer  couple  had  foreseen  that  the  wife  would 
not  long  survive  the  partner  to  whom  she  had  given  her  first 
young  love  many  years  before.  To  the  end,  Annie  was  ignorant 
of  the  dissipation  of  what  should  have  been  a  comfortable  fortune. 
She  said  that  the  railroads  had  "done  poor  Pa;  he  had  owned 


6     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

them  lots  down  by  the  warehouse,  and  that  big  place  next  to 
Havens  that  sold  the  other  day  for  nineteen  thousand  dollars, 
and  the  forest  strip  that  he  and  she  had  first  settled  on,  before 
her  first  baby  was  0001!"  And  Lizzie,  her  daughter,  and 
Lizzie's  children,  of  the  now  important  town  of  Crabtree,  tell 
the  story  so  to  this  day. 

Reuben  and  his  Lulu,  and  her  sister  Jenny  and  Lem  Crooker, 
had  long  before  this  moved  westward,  rejoicing  in  youth  and 
love  and  health  and  high-spirits.  They  stopped  when  their  ofF- 
horse  died,  in  what  was  one  day  to  be  Polo,  Illinois,  and  here 
several  children  were  born  to  Reuben  and  his  wife,  Lulu,  and 
one  child  to  Jenny,  a  little  girl  also  named  Jenny.  Lulu  had  a 
daughter  in  1836,  two  years  after  she  was  married,  a  plump, 
good-natured  little  girl,  May,  who  was  a  great  favourite  with 
everyone  in  the  growing  village,  and  two  years  later  another 
daughter,  Fanny.  In  1841  the  group  of  little  girls  was  joined 
by  a  brother,  Robert  Potts,  and  more  than  two  years  later  a 
fourth  and  last  child,  Harry.  Both  Lulu  and  Fanny  bore  other 
children,  but  none  survived,  and  in  1848,  when  she  was  thirteen 
years  old,  Jenny's  only  child,  little  Jenny,  died,  to  the  mother's1 
undying  grief. 

By  this  time  Jenny  had  been  widowed  for  several  years,  and 
the  family  of  two  women  and  five  children  was  entirely  sup- 
ported by  Reuben,  in  the  old-fashioned  way.  Little  Jenny's 
death  prostrated  both  her  mother  and  her  aunt;  she  had  been 
the  oldest  of  all  the  children,  beautiful  and  gentle  and  gifted  in  a 
most  uncommon  way,  and  they  sickened  of  life  in  the  raw  little 
frontier  town  without  her.  Lulu's  May  was  a  fat,  good-natured 
little  dumpling,  and  Fanny  the  younger  child  promised  to  be  a 
spirited  and  interesting  girl  later  on,  when  she  got  her  second 
teeth,  but  life  in  Polo  had  grown  suddenly  unendurable  to  both 
women,  and  it  was  because  of  their  importunities  that  Reuben 
good-naturedly  disposed  of  his  thriving  general  store,  with  its 
calicoes,  sardines,  and  Mexican  saddles,  and  joined  the  army  of 
emigration  toward  the  fabled  west,  in  1849. 

The  women  and  children  accompanied  him  to  "Saint  Jo," 
and  with  a  pleasant  flutter  of  novelty  and  excitement  they 
watched  the  purchase  of  an  outfit.  The  straggling  town  was 
filled  with  other  thrilled  and  hopeful  adventurers,  and  Jenny 
Crooker,  a  comely  widow  at  thirty-two,  might  have  married  a 
dozen  times  in  the  first  dozen  days. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     7 

The  sisters,  with  the  quartette  of  ecstatic  children  swarming 
after  'them,  wandered  pleasantly  about  the  curious  and  dis- 
organized town,  watching  caravans  arrive,  dusty  and  weary,  and 
unpack  in  the  shade  and  sunshine  under  the  cottonwoods,  and 
other  caravans  depart  in  a  sort  of  buoyant  solemnity  to  the 
mysterious  west.  Reuben  had  some  money;  Jenny  several 
hundreds  from  the  late  Lem  Crooker.  They  bought  a  wagon, 
hooped  in  clean  canvas,  bought  oxen,  barrels  of  flour  and  hard- 
tack and  pickled  pork,  bags  of  salt  and  sugar  and  coffee,  whiskey, 
and  wheat  for  planting,  axes  and  guns  and  ropes;  the  town  was 
wild  with  an  orgy  of  buying. 

Reuben  "tied  up"  with  a  much  larger  party;  there  would  be 
twenty-two  caravans  and  thirty-seven  sturdy  men,  in  all.  It 
was  not  safe  to  travel  with  less,  and  the  late  " Potts  girls"  of 
Crabtree's  Crossing  found  themselves  not  the  least  educated  and 
refined  of  the  group.  Little  May,  thirteen  years  old,  amused 
and  delighted  her  elders  with  a  sudden  assumption  of  elegance 
and  exclusiveness. 

There  were  plenty  of  friendly  women  in  the  twenty-two 
caravans,  and  some  sixty  children.  It  was  a  village  in  move- 
ment, when,  upon  the  sweet  and  open  plains,  in  the  warm  May 
weather,  cattle  grazed,  campfires  sent  blue  smoke  into  the  twi- 
light, and  children  and  dogs  and  babies  frolicked  about  after  the 
weariness  and  the  restrictions  of  the  day.  During  the  fifty- 
seven  days  of  the  trip  there  were  constant  rumours,  alarms,  and 
excitements,  but  no  real  suffering.  Six  or  seven  infants  were 
born  en  route  \  scouts  came  back  with  reports  of  Indians  ahead, 
and  guns  were  loaded,  and  the  scampering  children  sternly  con- 
fined. But  there  was  no  real  danger  and  no  real  fear;  plump 
little  May  Crabtree  well  remembered,  in  later  years,  an  evening 
when  she  and  Fanny  were  surreptitiously  scraping  sugar  from  the 
hard  lump  in  the  wagon-body,  under  the  driver's  seat,  sugar 
always  faintly  seasoned  by  tarred  paper  and  sacking.  Her  father 
had  glanced  back,  over  his  tightened  reins,  and  had  rebuked 
them. 

"Git  out  of  that,  girls!  I'll  sugar  ye  if  the  Injuns  git  a  mile 
nearer!" 

It  was  thrilling,  it  was  delightful,  to  scramble  up  beside  him  on 
the  front  seat,  and  to  realize  that  the  oxen  were  really  moving 
along  pretty  steadily.  Their  mother,  trying  to  get  five-year-old 
Harry  to  sleep,  had  called  out  fretfully: 


8      CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Land  sakes,  Rube!  Don't  rattle  a  body's  bones  loose,  if 
the  Injuns  are  coming!" 

Dirty,  weary,  but  undaunted,  the  Crabtree  party  arrived  in 
San  Francisco  late  on  a  brilliant  August  afternoon,  in  1849. 
Reuben  had  sold  his  outfit  in  Marysville,  and  bought  a  box 
wagon  and  a  team:  the  trip  down  took  him  two  days,  but  the 
family  was  in  high  spirits,  and  nobody  resented  the  leisurely 
miles.  Tales  of  murder,  death  on  the  plains,  and  Indian  out- 
rage, met  them  on  every  side,  and  they  felt  themselves  not  only 
fortunate,  but  wise,  in  all  their  moves  and  decisions. 

San  Francisco,  lying  upon  her  seven  sandy  hills,  looked 
civilized  to  Jenny  and  Lulu.  There  were  few  women  to  be  seen 
among  the  jumble  of  cheap  wooden  buildings,  the  Chinese 
"cook-houses"  and  "wash-houses,"  the  saloons  and  gambling 
hells,  the  quarters  where  Mexicans  and  Indians  and  half-breeds 
of  every  type  were  housed  together.  There  was  a  "French- 
man's" and  a  "Dutchman's"  and  a  "Swede's";  the  startled 
eyes  of  the  two  women,  and  of  little  May,  Fanny,  Bob,  and  Baby 
Harry,  saw  dark-skinned  Indian  women,  stolidly  watching  them, 
over  pipes,  bold  Mexican  girls  with  exposed  brown  bosoms  and 
black  loose  coils  of  hair,  eyeing  them  curiously,  and  cowboys 
loping  past  them  in  a  magnificent  whirl  of  embossed  and 
fringed  leather  and  flying  satiny  ponies. 

Reuben  was  in  great  spirits;  every  boyish  longing  for  adven- 
ture, hidden  in  all  men,  was  roused  and  satisfied  at  once.  He 
and  his  women  took  possession  of  an  empty,  doorless,  one- 
roomed  shack,  and  the  roof  and  walls  seemed  to  give  them  a 
delicious  sense  of  privacy,  after  the  open  plains.  And  the  next 
day,  with  the  extra  barrels  of  sugar  and  flour,  Reuben  opened  a 
grocery  store. 

Jenny,  for  two  hundred  dollars,  bought  two  lots  and  an  empty 
barn.  The  barn  she  floored  and  divided;  it  was  one  of  the  first 
houses  in  San  Francisco  to  boast  an  indoor  flight  of  stairs.  The 
Mexican  haciendas  had  stairs,  to  be  sure,  but  they  were  flimsy 
outdoor  affairs.  Jenny  developed  an  unexpected  strength  of 
character:  no  man  could  tempt  her  from  her  proud  widowhood. 
But  she  and  a  derelict  young  coloured  woman  named  Carra, 
whom  Lulu  had  annexed,  boarded  half  the  men  that  were  later 
to  be  the  railroad  and  the  gold-mine  kings  of  the  infant  terri- 
tory.    Crooker's  Hotel  was  famous  as  early  as  1853,  and  in  1865 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE      9 

Jenny  retired,  comfortably  wealthy,  and  went  east  for  a  year, 
and  to  Europe,  taking  with  her  Lulu's  Fanny,  then  a  sprightly, 
handsome  girl  of  twenty-seven. 

By  this  time  Reuben  was  rich,  too.  The  sugar  and  flour 
that  had  crossed  the  plains  safely  in  1849  had  made  a  trail  for 
tons  of  sugar  and  flour,  for  teas  and  coffees  and  other  luxuries. 
Reuben  Crabtree  brought  the  first  pepper  and  cinnamon  and 
ginger  into  the  new  state,  and  his  children  grew  up  with  the  town. 

They  saw  wealth  come  into  it,  and  with  wealth  came  schools 
and  a  library,  "cable  cars,"  theatres,  shops.  Magnificent 
homes  went  up  like  mushrooms  on  Nob  Hill,  the  Vigilantes 
flourished  at  Fort  Gunnybags,  the  Mexicans  and  miners  van- 
ished, and  with  them  the  murders  and  the  riots.  The  railroad 
came,  and  there  were  regular  side-wheel  ferries  plying  across  the 
ruffled  blue  bay,  and  gradually  the  distant  faubourgs  of  "Mis- 
sion Dolores"  and  "Tuckertown"  melted  into  the  greater  city, 
and  a  drive  was  laid  straight  through  miles  of  sandhills  to  the 
beach,  and  bull  pines  and  pioneer  peppers  and  eucalyptus  were 
planted  in  what  some  day  would  be  Golden  Gate  Park. 

May  and  Fanny  Crabtree  had  a  glorious  girlhood,  with  more 
admirers  than  a  dozen  girls  usually  can  boast,  and  May  was 
actually  exhausted  with  conquests  when,  at  twenty-four,  she 
chose  young  Stephen  Brewer,  an  "eastern"  man,  and  a  trusted 
clerk  in  her  father's  firm,  for  her  life  partner.  May  was  a 
beauty  and  a  belle,  then,  and  there  was  no  door  on  Nob  Hill 
through  which  her  tilting  hoops  had  not  triumphantly  sailed. 
She  and  her  Stephen  rented  a  small  house  in  Powell  Street,  at 
O'Farrell;  her  father  had  offered  to  buy  them  this  house  as  a 
wedding  gift,  but  the  price  seemed  to  the  young  couple  ex- 
orbitant— seventeen  hundred  dollars  for  a  home  that  was  not 
new! — and  May  very  sensibly  preferred  a  seal-skin  coat  and 
cap,  in  which  she  looked  bewitching. 

Reuben,  just  before  his  oldest  girl's  marriage,  had  built 
himself  a  magnificent  home,  across  the  bay.  It  was  really  a 
farm  then,  two  hundred  gracious  acres  on  the  slopes  above  San 
Rafael,  and  the  house  was  so  pretentious,  with  its  bay  windows 
and  its  upstairs  porches,  that  actual  expeditions  were  sometimes 
made,  by  interested  San  Franciscans,  to  view  it.  San  Rafael 
was  a  little  country  town  behind  Tamalpais  Mountain;  it  was 
reached  by  a  ferry  trip  to  Saucelito,  and  a  rattling  half  hour  in 
the  train. 


io     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

The  Potts  girls  of  long  ago,  Lulu  Crabtree  and  the  still  res- 
olutely unmarried  Jenny  Crooker,  planted  peppers  and  palms 
about  the  mansion,  with  fuchsias  and  marigolds  and  roses,  and 
the  balmy  western  airs  fanned  them  into  miraculous  beauty 
and  growth.  There  were  riding  horses  in  the  big  stable,  and  the 
young  people  could  extend  a  splendid  hospitality  in  the  matter 
of  rooms,  meals,  rides,  drives,  picnics,  and  dances. 

When  young  Fanny  and  her  aunt  Jenny  went  abroad,  May 
and  Stephen  Brewer  and  their  five  children  left  the  Powell 
Street  house  and  came  to  live  in  her  parents'  beautiful  home. 
Old  Reuben's  sons  were  not  as  definite,  nor  quite  so  satisfactory 
as  his  daughters.  Bob,  the  older,  was  a  somewhat  indifferent 
member  of  the  family  firm;  the  business  was  known  as  "R.  E. 
Crabtree  and  Company — Spices,  Teas  and  Coffees,"  now. 

Harry,  the  five-year-old  baby  who  had  been  brought  across 
the  plains,  was  a  gentle,  negative  youth,  somewhat  silent  and 
diffident.  In  1868  Harry,  quite  unexpectedly  to  his  family, 
and  perhaps  to  himself,  married  a  strong-minded  and  vigorous 
widow  named  Lucy  Carter,  with  one  beautiful  little  girl,  and 
after  that  he  did  not  live  at  home  or  see  much  of  his  own  people. 
He  worked  with  an  insurance  firm,  was  presently  sent  to  England 
in  the  interests  of  the  business,  returned  with  his  wife  and  his 
step-daughter,  and  another  little  daughter  and  son  really  his 
own,  and  again  dropped  quietly  from  sight. 

Thus  May,  as  Mrs.  Brewer,  really  became  the  representative 
of  the  family.  May  was  an  emotional,  warm-hearted,  not  too 
brilliant  woman,  and  during  the  last  years  of  her  happy  girlhood 
she  had  developed  a  certain  charming  pride  in  herself  and  her 
family.  She  was  a  Crabtree,  of  Crabtree's  Crossing,  Illinois. 
Papa  and  Mama  had  come  west,  from  the  old  home,  because 
of  Mama's  health.  The  Crabtrees  were — well,  of  course  every- 
one knew  them,  back  east.  Carra,  Jenny's  old  coloured  as- 
sistant, who  had  now  become  a  sort  of  general  factotem,  was 
"one  of  the  family  servants."  May  taught  her  daughters  that 
they  must  respect  themselves;  "I  suppose  there  is  no  older  or 
finer  family  in  America  than  ours,"  she  used  to  say  thought- 
fully. And  she  was  not  generous  with  other  San  Francisco 
families  who  began  to  assert  similar  claims.  The  Murchisons 
and  the  Persons  and  the  de  Pinnas  and  the  Barkers  and  the 
Mclntyres — ha!  These  people  setting  up  social  affectations — 
well,  perhaps  it  was  all  right.     But  it  was  very  amusing,  to  May. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     u 

These  were  serene  days  for  the  entire  family,  after  the  stress 
and  strain  of  the  preceding  years.  Jenny  was  a  square,  squat, 
somewhat  mustachioed  woman,  in  middle  life,  determined, 
energetic,  and  spirited.  Lulu  was  a  somewhat  quieter  type, 
rather  limp  and  gentle,  dominated  by  her  husband  and  her  five 
children.  She  and  Jenny  wore  bonnets  and  mantles,  at  fifty, 
when,  which  was  rarely,  they  left  the  house.  Jenny  managed 
all  household  affairs;  the  sisters  sat  talking,  for  endless  hours, 
over  the  "air-tight"  stove  in  winter,  and  by  the  open  dining- 
room  windows  in  summer. 

May's  marriage  and  May's  children  supplied  a  tremendous 
interest  for  them.  Sundays  became  extraordinarily  pleasant, 
with  Reuben  puttering  about  the  garden,  a  small  grand-daugh- 
ter's hand  in  his,  and  Harry,  Bob,  and  Fanny  still  young  enough 
to  supply  the  house  with  excitement  and  life.  May's  husband, 
the  handsome  and  dignified  Stephen  Brewer,  was  an  ideal  son- 
in-law,  and  when  he  and  May  arrived,  with  the  caped  and  bon- 
neted babies,  a  certain  feeling  of  well-being  and  prosperity 
came  with  them. 

When  Aunt  Jenny  suddenly  decided  to  go  abroad  and  to  take 
her  niece  Fanny  with  her,  May  was  pained,  for  as  an  absorbed 
young  wife  and  mother,  who  had  no  time  for  such  enjoyments 
and  rather  despised  them,  she  had  previously  felt  her  own  life 
to  be  the  ideal  one.  But  May  immediately  decided,  that  her 
parents  would  be  too  lonely  with  Aunt  Jenny  and  Fan  both 
gone,  and  she  and  Stephen  moved  to  the  San  Rafael  house  and 
remained  there.  This  proved  a  satisfactory  arrangement,  even 
when  the  travellers  came  back  with  glass  tubes  of  bright  rib- 
boned sand  from  the  Jordan  and  cuckoo  clocks  from  Switzer- 
land. The  silent  old  grandmother  clung  to  the  little  children, 
and  May's  children  knew  Grandpa's  house  well,  and  they  loved 
it.  Stephen  made  the  trip  back  and  forth,  by  train  to  Saucelito, 
by  boat  to  San  Francisco,  daily,  for  something  like  thirty-five 
years. 

There  were  five  Brewer  children,  born  between  i860  and  1868. 
First  came  Esme,  and  then  the  only  boy,  Albert.  After  Albert 
were  three  girls,  Victoria,  Ernestine,  who  was  called  Tina,  and 
one  who  was  named  for  her  somewhat  surprised  grandmother, 
Louisianna.  For  May  had  long  ago  discovered  that  the  rightful 
name  of  the  one-time  Lulu  Potts  of  Crabtree's  Crossing  was 
Louisianna. 


12     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

May  had  wanted  sons,  had  seen  herself  as  the  proud  possessor 
of  "the  Brewer  boys."  She  would  always  have  spoiled  sons; 
having  but  one  she  spoiled  him  all  the  more  heartily.  She  told 
the  bewildered  and  indifferent  little  boy  in  his  fifth  summer,  that 
he  was  the  "only  Brewer  boy;  in  England  he  would  have  in- 
herited everything."  She  playfully  introduced  Bertie,  at  seven, 
as  "our  son  and  heir."  There  was  a  quaver  of  honest  emotion 
in  her  voice  as  she  drew  him  forward.  "This  is  our  boy — he  and 
his  mama  are  chums  already!" 

Bertie  had  the  riding-pony,  and  his  sisters  had  to  ask  him  for 
rides :  if  but  one  child  could  go  on  any  expedition  it  was  always 
the  son.  Bertie  had  his  own  room  long  before  nursery  days 
were  outgrown  for  Esme,  Vick,  Tina,  and  Lou. 

But  May  loved  her  daughters,  too,  and  would  always  soften 
these  decisions  with  motherly  tact. 

"Mama  and  Papa  have  decided  to  take  Bertie,  girlies.  You 
see  a  boy  gets  into  mischief,  at  home.  And  Mama  knows  that 
she  can  trust  her  girls!" 

Presently  both  the  grizzled  and  elderly  women  who  had  been 
the  Potts  girls  died.  Mrs.  Crabtree  died  first,  when  her  name- 
sake grand-daughter  was  only  five.  May  was  undisputed  mis- 
tress of  the  big  San  Rafael  house  then,  for  Aunt  Jenny  loved  her 
and  trusted  her  in  everything,  as  did  old  Reuben.  May's  sister, 
Fanny  Crabtree,  found  herself  somewhat  in  the  position  of  a 
superfluous  old  maid,  in  the  full  household,  until  Aunt  Jenny 
Crooker  suddenly  had  "her  shock,"  too,  and  died  as  her  sister 
had  done,  and  left  all  her  money  to  Fanny. 


CHAPTER  II 

REUBEN  CRABTREE  was  a  grizzled  old  man  of  sixty- 
two  when  his  wife  died;  the  two  years  that  her  sister 
survived  her  were  the  hardest  business  years  of  his 
entire  career.  The  entire  country  was  experiencing  a  money 
panic;  Crabtree  and  Company  got  the  heavy  outer  washes  of  the 
wave  of  depression. 

He  missed  his  lean,  silent  wife,  and  her  square,  mustachioed 
sister,  the  two  women  who  had  accompanied  him  upon  all  his 
adventures  since  actual  youth,  whose  opinions  and  personalities 
had  formed  his  character  and  made  his  home  world.  Their 
heavy  forms,  in  scalloped  percale  sacques,  had  moved  about  his 
house  for  years;  they  had  given  him  his  cue  for  action  where  his 
children  were  concerned.  He  missed  them  both,  and  shed  hard, 
unaccustomed  tears  at  their  graves. 

May  managed  his  house  now,  and  persistently  and  playfully 
May  made  "Grandpa"  the  centre  of  it.  She  and  Fanny  quar- 
relled over  questions  that  they  tearfully  assured  him  were  "only 
for  his  good,"  and  Stephen  consulted  him  on  business  matters 
and,  when  the  old  man  kept  regular  office  hours,  made  the  daily 
trip  with  him  on  the  boat. 

But  Reuben  was  not  important  in  their  lives,  and  he  was 
shrewd  enough  to  see  it,  and  wise  enough  not  to  resent  it.  He 
became  a  silent,  dry,  chuckling  old  man  only  really  animated 
when,  by  chance,  the  conversation  was  carried  back  some 
thirty  or  forty  years.  Pioneer  days,  old  property  fights  between 
sheep-raising  Spaniards  and  the  encroaching  gringos,  the  dis- 
covery of  "out-croppings"  and  "quartz,"  roused  him  to  sudden 
interest.  He  would  drop  his  bloodless,  bald  little  head  to  one 
side,  shove  his  hands  deep  in  his  trouser  pockets,  chew  rotatingly 
upon  an  unlighted  cigar,  and  fix  his  swimming  old  gray  eyes  upon 
space,  his  small  crossed  foot  waggling  agitatedly,  as  with  many 
a  sharp  "heh!"  he  contributed  what  an  amazing  memory  had 
stored  of  California's  youth. 

13 


i4     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

For  the  rest,  as  years  went  by,  his  grandchildren  were  more 
and  more  his  companions.  They  puttered  with  him  in  the  gar- 
den, and  shrieked  to  him  to  see  them  on  the  horses,  to  see  them 
on  the  windmill,  to  see  the  big  hole  they  had  dug.  He  would 
leave  them  in  mid-morning,  and  May  would  accompany  him  to 
the  gate. 

"Going  into  town  to  that  horrid  office,  Pa?" 

"Thought  I  would,  May." 

Reuben,  in  his  office,  or  at  Directors'  meetings,  chewed, 
looked  sharply  from  face  to  face,  chuckled  and  agreed,  or — 
rarely — broke  out  into  protest.  Stephen  had  begun  of  late 
years  to  treat  him  with  long-suffering,  kindly  contempt.  But 
some  of  the  other  members  of  the  firm,  Yeasley  and  both  the 
Fendersons,  felt  that  the  old  president  was  still  the  real  head  of 
the  concern  by  right  of  wisdom  and  experience. 

His  sons  the  old  man  rarely  saw.  Robert,  the  elder,  hand- 
some, bluff,  always  oddly  unconvincing,  had  sold  back  to  his 
father  his  stock  in  the  family  firm  in  i872,had  gone  to  Boston, 
married  there,  and  so  removed  himself  from  the  family  group. 
Harry,  always  a  sweet,  vague,  affectionate  boy,  had  been,  the 
old  man  thought,  influenced  by  his  wife — "that  damn'  widow," 
as  the  old  man  called  the  active  Lucy — to  withdraw  his  inter- 
est from  Crabtree  and  Company,  also,  and  at  a  most  inconven- 
ient time.  This  was  in  1874,  Lucy  and  Harry  had  just  returned 
from  England,  their  two  little  girls  with  them  and  a  third  baby 
expected,  and  Lucy  had  been  persuaded  by  a  train  acquaint- 
ance, during  the  six  days'  train  trip  between  Chicago  and  San 
Francisco,  that  there  was  a  fortune  to  be  made  in  Placer  County 
gold  mines.  Their  thousands  might  easily  be  made  as 
many  millions;  such  miracles  were  going  on  about  them  every 
day.  The  Harry  Crabtrees  put  all  their  money  into  stock  in  a 
gold-mine  on  the  American  River,  and  might  quite  as  well  have 
put  it  into  the  river  itself. 

Reuben  did  not  much  mind  buying  back  Harry's  interest, 
although  he  was  hard-pressed  at  the  time  and  had  secretly  to 
place  a  mortgage  upon  the  San  Rafael  homestead  to  meet  his 
obligations,  and  borrow  on  other  securities  to  weather  the 
storm. 

But  he  was  sorry  to  have  his  youngest  child  and  favourite  so 
completely  under  his  wife's  thumb;  Reuben  disliked  Harry's 
frog-eyed,  garrulous,   complacent  wife,   and  he  found  himself 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  15 

unable  to  defend  Harry,  when  May  and  Stephen  and  Fanny 
discussed  him.  He  saw  less  and  less  of  Harry,  who  was  strug- 
gling with  a  small  position  with  the  Atlas  Rubber  people,  and 
hardly  knew  the  three  children,  Nelly,  Alice,  and  baby  Georgie, 
even  by  sight,  for  several  years. 

Fanny,  at  this  time  the  family's  unconsidered  old  maid,  did 
not  appear  to  great  advantage  during  the  financial  panic, 
either.  She  could  merely  worry  and  wring  her  hands.  No- 
body cared  what  she  did.  But  May  and  Stephen  had  shone 
in  this  trial.  True,  they  lived  with  Pa,  his  home  was  theirs,  and 
their  entire  income  came  from  Crabtree  and  Company;  they  had 
no  choice. 

But  May  did  not  remember  this  lack  of  alternative.  She 
only  remembered  that  she  had  never,  never,  not  for  one  instant, 
lost  faith  in  Steve  and  Pa.  Steve  had  "slaved,"  Steve  had 
"not  slept,"  for  months.  He  and  Pa  had  plodded  to  the  office 
every  day,  and  things  had  happened,  and  times  had  gotten 
better,  and  prosperity  had  returned.  May  cried  with  love  and 
gratitude  whenever  she  thought  of  it.  If  she  and  Steve  had  had 
money,  every  penny  of  it  would  have  been  Pa's!  They  hadn't 
had  money,  but  they  had  given  love,  and  courage,  and  devotion, 
hadn't  they,  Pa  ?  May  made  herself  obnoxious  to  her  sister,  and 
to  Harry's  wife,  with  her  warm  air  of  all-embracing  perfection. 

After  awhile,  however,  time  worked  its  usual  restoring  changes. 
Aunt  Jenny  died,  and  Fanny,  who  inherited  a  comfortable 
fortune,  became  an  extremely  important  person.  Reuben  grew 
older,  and  began  to  be  tired  by  the  bay-trip;  he  and  Fanny 
rented  a  house  in  the  city,  and  moved  away  from  the  old  home. 

May  watched  this  change  uneasily.  It  left  her  mistress  of 
the  San  Rafael  house,  as  she  had  always  dreamed  she  might  be, 
but  then  she  had  always  dreamed  of  Pa's  dying,  instead  of  being 
extremely  lively,  and  wasting  his  money  upon  town  rents  and 
town  expenses.  He  had  always  paid  certain  bills  for  May  and 
Steve,  water  and  gas  and  the  hired  man  and  for  the  horses'  keep. 
Now  this  stopped,  and  Fanny's  occasional  erratic  contributions 
stopped,  too.  Fanny  had  sometimes  bought  ferry-tickets, 
treated  the  "girlies"  to  a  town  lunch,  had  her  room  papered,  or 
taken  the  whole  family  to  a  charity  entertainment.  May  felt 
easier  with  Fanny's  fortune  in  the  house,  as  it  were.  May  had 
her  family  to  think  for. 

Pa  would  leave  to  Harry's  children — not  necessarily  Lucy's 


16  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

child  by  her  first  marriage,  no — but  to  the  two  younger  children, 
Alice  and  Georgie,  Pa  would  leave  something.  But  Bob  and 
his  Boston  wife  had  no  children,  and  Fanny  was  unmarried. 
Calculate  as  she  would,  May  could  not  see  how  the  bulk  of  Pa's 
fortune,  and  all  of  Fanny's,  could  fall  otherwise  than  to  her 
children.  Bertie  would  go  into  the  business,  and  inherit  the 
lion's  share.  But  dear  Esme  and  Vick  and  Tina  and  Lou  would 
have  handsome  marriage  portions  as  well. 

Nothing  to  worry  about;  time  must  bring  it  all  to  pass.  But 
May,  as  her  father  aged,  indulged  sometimes  in  a  dream  of  what 
must  take  place  the  instant  "  anything  happened  to  Pa."  Steve 
would  be  supreme  at  the  office  then,  and  she  and  the  children 
"the  heirs."  If  Rob  or  Harry  put  in  any  claim,  Steve  must  be 
firm  with  them;  they  had  lost  their  chance!  As  for  Fanny,  with 
all  Aunt  Jenny's  money — May  would  like  to  hear  her  make  any 
comment  upon  what  Steve  did  or  didn't  do!  The  memory  of 
Fan's  airs,  when  Aunt  Jenny  died,  and  when  Fanny  had  to  see 
lawyers  and  take  over  responsibilities,  galled  May  whenever  she 
thought  of  it.  The  India  shawl  and  the  Spanish  scarves,  in- 
deed !  It  was  hard  for  May  to  accept  these  meekly  for  her  girls, 
highly  as  she  had  always  prized  them,  with  Fanny  being  con- 
sulted about  " securities"  and  "cash  balances"  in  the  Bank. 

And  as  the  years  went  by,  and  Fanny  became  a  prosperous 
and  highly  respected  maiden  lady,  and  May's  girls  more  and 
more  of  a  responsibility,  the  position  of  the  sisters  seemed  oddly 
reversed.  May  was  harassed  and  pitied;  Fanny  blithe  and 
care-free.  May  resented  it  bitterly;  her  Esme  was  twenty — 
was  twenty-two — and  Vicky  and  Tina  coming  along  steadily, 
and  there  must  be  some  entertaining,  some  social  brilliance, 
some  engagements.  And  still  nothing  "happened"  to  Pa,  and 
Fanny  saved  her  ridiculous  hundreds  jealously,  and  Lucy's 
Nelly,  a  girl  absolutely  without  advantages,  raised  in  a  little 
Mission  house  without  even  a  bathroom  in  it,  was  turning  out 
a  beauty  and  a  belle  and  a  heart-breaker,  while  Esme  sat  out 
dance  after  dance  looking  all  sagging  shoulders  and  discouraged 
eyes  and  stiff  elbows. 

May  had  a  party  for  Pa  on  his  seventieth  birthday,  and  on  his 
seventy-first,  and  on  his  seventy-second.  On  his  seventy-third 
he  was  ill,  and  they  were  all  very  serious.  Lucy  came  from  the 
Mission,  Harry  and  Steve,  meeting  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
talked  gravely  in  the  halls.     But  Pa  rallied,  and  was  progressing 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  17 

cacklingly  toward  his  seventy-fourth  anniversary,  one  windy, 
warm  August  morning  in  1885,  when  he  received  an  unexpected 
letter  from  Robert,  in  Boston.  Robert  and  his  wife  hoped  Pa 
was  well;  they  were  coming  to  California  for  a  visit.  Reuben 
had  not  seen  his  son  for  more  than  ten  years.  He  did  not  tell 
Fanny,  who  was  fluttering  about  as  a  preparation  for  going  to 
Market,  but  he  did  tell  old  Carra,  who  was  a  sort  of  body  ser- 
vant of  his  in  these  days. 

"'At  so?"  said  Carra,  showing  purple,  smiling  gums.  "Mist' 
Rob  ain'  got  no  children,  I  raik'n?" 

"  No,"  the  old  man  agreed.     "  Wish  he  had." 

"He  am*  been  married  so  long,"  Carra  suggested  consolingly. 

The  old  man  went  down  to  his  office,  on  the  day  after  the 
letter  came,  and  took  his  place  at  his  own  desk,  in  the  room  that 
also  contained  the  desk  of  his  son-in-law  and  partner.  He  did 
not  often  go  to  the  office,  especially  in  this  dry  month  of  August, 
unless  there  was  a  special  meeting  of  directors,  and  to-day,  as  he 
walked  in  from  the  hot  street  to  the  shadowy  building,  with  its 
glassed  offices  and  its  oiled  floor,  the  shirt-sleeved  men  from  the 
packing-house,  and  the  clerks,  with  their  green  eye-shades,  all 
wondered,  as  they  went  busily  about  their  business,  just  what 
had  brought  him. 

Stephen  Brewer  was  downstairs,  inspecting  some  sample 
labels  in  the  office  of  the  cashier,  when  the  word  went  round, 
that  the  "old  man  was  down."  But  he  at  once  mounted  the 
stairs  to  the  formal  apartment  that  bore  his  own  name  as  vice- 
president,  under  the  name  of  Reuben  Crabtree,  President,  and 
came  in  upon  his  wife's  father  with  respectful  haste  and  solici- 
tude. The  room  faced  the  south,  and  upon  the  green  window- 
blinds  hot  sunlight  was  mercilessly  beating.  But  in  the  perfect 
bare  order  of  the  office  the  air  was  not  too  hot. 

"Well — here  you  are!"  Stephen,  a  large,  loosely  built 
bearded  man  with  a  smile  that  showed  his  smooth  full  lower  lip, 
said  somewhat  expectantly.  The  old  president  of  the  firm, 
like  any  other  man  of  his  age,  was  an  unmitigated  nuisance 
about  the  place,  but  it  was  not  for  his  partner  and  son-in-law  to 
antagonize  him.  Stephen  was  helpless  under  his  interference. 
He  thought  apprehensively  now  of  half-a-dozen  ways  in  which 
old  Reuben  could  complicate  and  delay  matters  in  the  packing- 
room  at  this  exact  moment. 

"How's  everything,  Steve?"  Reuben  said,  with  a  dry  cackle. 


1 8     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

He  pushed  back  his  dusty  derby  hat,  and  Stephen  saw  the  deep 
red  mark  it  left  on  the  papery,  bloodless  skin.  "How's  May 
and  the  girls?" 

"They  are  very  well — very  well,"  Stephen  said  judicially. 
He  knew  that  something  else  was  coming,  and  he  was  a  trifle 
concerned  as  to  its  nature. 

"Find  ye  still  need  Bertie  here?"  Reuben  chuckled.  Ste- 
phen smiled,  flushing  as  he  smiled.  This  facetious  allusion  was 
to  Stephen's  remark,  thrown  out  as  a  sort  of  feeler,  some  weeks 
ago,  as  to  the  advisability  of  his  taking  his  one  son,  Bertie,  into 
the  business. 

"I  certainly  did  not  mean  that  I — that  we  need  Bertie  now" 
he  said,  with  comfortable  dignity.  "My  remark  was  merely 
that — building  for  the  future,  it  might  be  wise  to  have  the  boy 
with  us.  As  a  member  of  the  family,  his  place  is  here.  He 
may  have  his  sisters  to  provide  for,  some  day,  and  when  the 
time  comes  for  me  to  lay  down " 

"Well,  speaking  of  the  family,"  old  Reuben  said,  with  a 
noticeable  lack  of  sympathy,  and  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  a 
letter,  "looks  like  you're  goin'  to  get  your  wish  as  regards  your 
wife's  brother  Robbit.  He  and  his  wife  are  leavin'  for  Cali- 
fornia in  a  few  days,  now." 

"Bob!"  Stephen  said,  much  surprised.  "Why — I  haven't 
seen  Bob  Crabtree  for — it  must  be  ten  years.  What  on  earth  is 
bringing  him  home?" 

"I  don't  know!"  The  old  man  eyed  his  son-in-law  with  a 
shrewd  grin.  "P'raps  he  feels  that  if  we  need  Bertie,  we  need 
him!" 

Stephen  laughed  his  comfortable  laugh. 

"Well,  I  can  see  that  I  certainly  put  my  foot  in  it  when  I 
made  that  suggestion  about  Bertie!"  he  said  good-naturedly. 
"I  suppose  what  I  meant  was  that  we  could  develop  and  educate 
the  boy  to  be  useful  to  us.  As  to  Bob,  he  left  us  of  his  own  free 
will  and  accord " 

"And  there  hasn't  been  a  day  since  that  you  haven't  said  that 
he  ought  to  be  here  to  carry  his  share  of  the  responsibility," 
the  old  man  interpolated  mischievously. 

"No — no,  I  hardly  think  that  you  can  say  that,"  Stephen 
said  heavily,  beginning  to  be  a  trifle  annoyed.  "I  do  think — 
or  I  did  think — that  Bob  left  us  rather  in  the  lurch,  but  things 
are  different  now.    We  know  where  we  stand  now;  we've 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  19 

weathered  a  good  deal  since  Bob  went  east.  I — I  resent  the 
idea  that  I've  ever  grudged  Bob  his  right  to  do  what  he  pleased 
in  the  matter.  He  has  chosen  a  different  work — he  is  a  cotton 
merchant  now,  and  what's  past  is  past.  He  doesn't — I  suppose 
he  doesn't  intend  to  settle  here?" 

"I  don't  know."  Bob's  father  took  out  a  quill  tooth-pick 
and  began  to  chew  it  idly,  as  he  swung  about  in  his  swivel  chair. 
"The  boy's  place  is  here,"  he  said  musingly. 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  he  would  do,"  Stephen  said  lightly, 
yet  sharply.     "Woolcock  and  Fenderson " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  in  the  firm,  Steve,"  his  father-in-law  said 
with  his  diabolic  air  of  amusement.  "I  mean  here  in  San 
Francisco." 

"I  see!"  Stephen's  ruffled  spirit  almost  visibly  quieted. 
There  was  a  short  pause.     "How's  Fanny?"  he  asked. 

"Fine.     Vicky  runnin'  things  as  usual?" 

Stephen  smiled.  Victoria  was  not  only  his  own  but  her 
grandfather's  favourite,  among  his  four  girls. 

"She's  a  great  girl,"  he  said.  "She'll  be  excited  to  hear 
that  her  Uncle  Bob  is  coming  west.  By  the  way,  do  you  know 
anything  of  Bob's  wife?" 

"Boston  woman — she  was  a  Sewall — she  ain't  young,  either," 
the  old  man  summarized.  "I  gather  that  her  folks  are  well-to- 
do.  We'll  hear" —  his  old  eyes  twinkled — "we'll  hear  con- 
siderable of  Plymouth  Rock  and  the  Mayflower,  you  mark  my 
words!"  he  grinned. 

"That  ought  to  please  May,"  Stephen  said,  of  his  wife. 

There  was  another  short  silence.  It  was  about  two  o'clock. 
Stephen  thought  with  relief  that  the  old  man  would  shortly  be 
going  out  to  his  late  lunch,  and  would  not  return.  A  hot  wind 
had  sprung  up,  and  was  whining  outside  the  windows.  Both 
men  swung  lazily  in  their  chairs,  Stephen's  desk  was  open,  but 
there  was  no  reason  why  Reuben  Crabtree  should  roll  back  the 
jointed  top  of  his  own. 

Stephen  said  to  himself  that  the  old  fellow  was  certainly  fail- 
ing. He  surely  could  not  keep  on  much  longer.  He  visualized 
the  immediate  changes  that  he  would  make  in  the  office,  and  in 
the  administration  downstairs, when  the  old  head  of  the  firm  died. 

"Hot  over  your  way,  hey?"  Reuben  asked.  "Rob'll  want  to 
see  the  old  place,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 

"May'll  ask  them  to  San  Rafael,"  Stephen  said. 


2o  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Reuben  told  his  daughter  the  news  that  night,  and  the  next 
day  Fanny  went  all  the  way  across  the  bay  to  San  Rafael,  to  dis- 
cuss it  with  her  sister.     It  was  a  great  event  in  the  family. 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  let  Harry  know?"  May  Brewer 
asked,  hesitatingly. 

"Harry  doesn't  care  two  cents  about  family  affairs !"  Fanny 
said  decidedly,  beating  the  tip  of  her  nose  with  her  hand.  Every- 
thing she  said  was  decided,  often  satirical  or  even  bitter. 

"No,  but  Lucy  does,"  May  offered  hesitatingly.  It  was 
decided  simply  to  notify  Lucy,  and  let  her  act  toward  the  un- 
known sister-in-law,  and  the  brother-in-law  she  hardly  knew, 
as  she  saw  fit. 

"Well,  that  was  all,  May,"  Fanny  said,  when  they  had 
reached  this  point.  Mrs.  Brewer  immediately  released  a  bal- 
looning call  toward  unseen  members  of  the  family: 

"Oh,  girlies!     You  can  come  back  now!" 

They  were  in  the  sewing-room,  which  smelled  of  machine-oil 
and  new  woolens.  The  girls  had  been  dismissed  until  the  cream 
of  the  news  had  been  skimmed  by  their  elders.  But  now  they 
streamed  back  to  hear  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Robert  Crabtrees  reached  San  Francisco  on  a  Friday 
afternoon  late  in  the  same  month  and  registered  at  the 
Occidental  Hotel.  They  had  a  large  room  that  gave  on 
Montgomery  Street,  and  between  it  and  the  hall  a  totally  dark 
bathroom  where  a  bead  of  gas  burned  in  a  round  white  globe. 
Ella  Crabtree,  Robert's  Bostonian  wife,  was  tired  from  her 
seven  days  in  the  rocking  train,  and  to  her  the  strange  city, 
the  blowing,  gritty  dust  of  the  summer  sunset,  looked  ugly  and 
cheap. 

But  Bob  was  in  good  spirits.  He  breathed  his  native  air 
again  and  he  liked  it.  Various  men  on  the  train  or  in  the  hotel 
had  recognized  him,  and  he  was  elated  and  excited  at  getting 
home.  His  business  experience  in  Boston  had  not  been  very 
successful,  and  he  half-hoped  now  that  some  chance  would  pre- 
vent the  necessity  of  his  returning  there,  but  no  one  knew  that. 
He  could  say  with  perfect  truth  that  he  was  "representing  Se- 
wall,  Scott  and  Forster,"  the  Boston  cotton  merchants,  for  his 
wife's  elderly  brother  had  intimated  that  a  commission  business 
modestly  established  on  the  coast  might  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
old  cotton  firm.  Bob  was  a  big  man,  with  an  expansive,  genial 
manner,  and  a  hearty,  often  affected,  laugh.  His  own  family 
had  alternated  between  thinking  him  a  remarkably  clever  and 
an  amazingly  simple  person.  He  had  an  air  of  being  intimately 
acquainted  with  big  affairs  and  important  persons,  yet  he  ac- 
tually held  only  an  underling's  position. 

After  the  dinner,  selected  from  a  list  written  in  a  flowing 
hand  with  green  ink  upon  a  gilt-edged  card,  Robert  and  his  wife 
walked  about  the  streets  for  awhile,  and  Robert  showed  Ella  the 
old  cable  cars  on  Sutter  Street,  with  their  rattling  "dummies" 
attached,  and  the  more  modern  type  of  cable  cars  that  filed  up 
Market  Street,  with  yellow  lights  for  McAlister,  blue  for  Valen- 
cia, and  green  for  Eddy  Street.  These  cars  were  built  in  one 
solid  piece  with  their  dummies;  the  "gripman"  stood  out  of 

21 


22     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

doors  in  all  weathers.  Each  car  bore  its  street  name  in  a  long 
board  that  stretched  almost  its  entire  length  and  was  hooked  to 
the  clerestory.  Like  all  San  Franciscans,  Robert  was  proud  of 
this  Californian  invention. 

But  Ella  felt  far  more  pride  and  interest  when,  after  some  of 
his  ready  laughter,  and  some  confused  repetitions  of  "Here — 
let  me  see — where  are  we?  It  ought  to  be  right  here — let  me 
see!"  he  led  her  to  the  corner  of  Sansome  and  Clay  Streets, 
where,  in  the  gloom,  she  could  see  the  dusty  facade  of  an  old 
two-story  building,  with  three  windows  in  the  upper  floor,  and 
on  the  street  floor  one  wide  office  window,  bearing  the  words 
"R.  E.  Crabtree  and  Company"  in  large  letters,  and  on  the 
dingy  wooden  sign  above,  "Spices,  Teas  and  Coffees." 

The  building  was  crowded  between  two  higher  ones,  and  the 
whole  neighbourhood  exhaled  an  odour  of  dried  pepper  and  roped 
onions,  for  the  wholesale  grocery  trade  had  its  quarters  here- 
abouts. Ella  liked  it.  She  walked  back  to  the  hotel  with 
Rob,  feeling  that  she  in  a  sense  belonged  to  this  odd,  shabby- 
looking  town  of  wooden  buildings.  She  blinked  smilingly  as 
she  followed  him  across  the  hotel  foyer,  where  black-and-white 
tiles  tipped  and  gave  under  her  feet,  and  where  the  great  calcium 
lights,  in  their  white  globes,  flung  an  unearthly  white  light  upon 
the  smoking  and  spitting  men,  and  hissed  and  flickered  spas- 
modically at  intervals. 

"Bob,  if  they  asked  you,  would  you  stay?"  she  asked  later, 
braiding  her  hair  into  one  thin,  smooth  braid.  She  had  taken 
off"  her  glasses,  and  washed  her  face  with  hot  water  and  soap, 
and  if  she  looked  plain,  she  also  looked  younger  so. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  Bob  said  thoughtfully.  "I'll  sound  old 
Steve  on  Sunday.     He  ought  to  offer  me  something!" 

"Oh,  I  wish  he  would!"  Ella  said  fervently.  And  she  went 
to  sleep  thinking  that  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  write  George 
and  Lizzie  that  Rob  could  only  give  the  matter  of  cotton  a 
little  time  now  and  then,  as  he  had  "decided  to  enter  the  family 
firm." 

•  The  next  day  at  eleven  o'clock  the  card  of  Mrs.  Stephen 
Brewer,  with  one  corner  turned  down  and  two  cards  of  Mr. 
Brewer,  were  brought  to  Mrs.  Robert  Crabtree,  who  immediately 
gave  herself  and  her  brown  cashmere  dress  a  glance  in  the 
mirror,  and  went  along  the  hotel  corridors  to  the  enormous 
parlours  to  meet  her  sister-in-law. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  23 

The  parlour's  draped  high  windows,  reaching  from  the  ceiling 
almost  to  the  floor,  let  in  a  flood  of  pleasant  summer  sunshine 
through  clean  lace  curtains,  and  Ella  could  only  see,  against  the 
brightness,  that  it  was  a  tall,  well-made  woman  who  rose  to 
greet  her. 

Her  cool,  clean  hand  clasped  the  other's  smooth  kid  glove: 
the  ladies  sat  down,  and  Mrs.  Brewer  said,  "Well!"  lightly  and 
laughingly. 

Ella  had  been  murmuring  something:  now  it  was  heard. 

"I'm  so  sorry  Rob's  out!" 

She  could  see  May  Brewer  now  plainly:  a  smiling,  rosy 
woman,  with  a  bonnet  covered  with  glinting  and  jingling  pail- 
lettes, and  with  clusters  and  clusters  of  little  bunches  of  tawny 
grapes.  This  was  fastened  under  her  chin  with  ribbons  of  tan 
velvet,  and  neatly  veiled.  Her  thick  brown  hair,  beginning  to 
turn  gray,  showed  in  a  smooth  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
almost  all  her  forehead  was  covered  with  a  richly  curled  "front. " 
Her  bosom  was  high,  and  the  fringe  that  trimmed  her  dress  of 
purple  cloth  rose  and  fell  on  a  plateau  as  she  laughed  and 
talked. 

On  her  side  May  Brewer  saw  a  rather  pale,  dark  woman, 
older  than  she  had  expected,  with  eyeglasses,  and  with  a  rather 
cold  and  composed,  and  yet  simple  manner.  The  women  eyed 
each  other  with  primitive  hostility  and  fear,  yet  both  were 
anxious  to  be  won  into  liking  and  friendship. 

f  But  you  must  meet  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Brewer,  after 
a  few  minutes,  and  she  nodded  to  a  tall  young  woman  who  had 
been  sitting  near.  "This  is  our  second  girl,"  the  mother  said. 
"  Victoria — you  know  who  this  is!" 

Victoria  Brewer,  shaking  hands,  said  with  unexpected  ani- 
mation: 

"How  are  you,  Aunt  Ella?" 

Ella  thought  her  handsome,  in  a  rather  bold,  savage  way. 
Victoria  was  dark  and  rosy,  with  flashing  eyes  and  vivacious, 
almost  nervous  manner.  She  wore  a  dress  of  dark  blue  cloth 
trimmed  about  the  high  collar  and  wide  cuffs  and  about  the 
thick  panniers  of  the  skirt  with  scallops  of  gray  silk,  and  a  high 
straw  turban  turned  back  sharply  from  the  face  with  two  tri- 
angles of  brim  and  massed  with  roses.  This  somewhat  elabo- 
rate dress  was  snugly  fitted  into  a  narrow  waist  line;  Victoria 
wore  tan  kid  gloves,  and  high  scalloped  boots  of  tan  kid.     Her 


24  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

forehead,  like  her  mother's,  was  covered  with  curled  hair,  and 
bangles  jangled  on  her  wrists;  about  her  neck  was  a  long  gold 
chain  that  held  the  little  watch  that  was  thrust  into  her  bosom. 
She  was  twenty-one. 

"We  all  wanted  to  come  in  to  meet  you,  there  was  a  regular 
fight,"  said  Victoria,  "but  I  had  to  come  in  for  my  singing  lesson 
anyway,  and  Mother  chose  me!" 

"Oh,  no,  Vicky,  you  mustn't  say  that!"  began  her  mother, 
but  Victoria  did  not  hear  her.  She  smiled  her  bright  and  ani- 
mated smile,  and  looked  down — she  was  unusually  tall — in  a 
most  friendly  fashion  at  her  uncle's  wife.  She  was  brimming 
with  enthusiasms,  in  love  with  life  and  with  herself;  and  so  joy- 
ously imaginative  that  this  mere  circumstance  of  having  rela- 
tives from  Boston  visiting  her  parents,  was  enough  to  turn  the 
fringed  head  with  delightful  schemes.  Suppose  that  Uncle  Rob 
invited  her  to  visit  them  in  Boston 

"What  is  your  voice?"  Ella  asked. 

"Contralto!"   Victoria   supplied,   as  her  mother  hesitated. 

"It's  more  like  a  contralto!"  said  Mrs.  Brewer. 

"And  what  is  his  method?"  the  Bostonian  pursued;  not  in  the 
least  knowing  of  what  srje  spoke,  but  quoting  some  half-re- 
membered conversation  with  a  musical  friend. 

"Well "     Victoria  laughed,  a  little  at  a  loss.     "I  know 

he's  very  thorough"  she  stated  presently.  "His  name  is  Signor 
Maroni,  he's  really — internationally  known!"  Victoria  added 
eagerly.  "He's  taught  for  years  in  New  York — but  his  health 
was  bad.  He's  quite  old — his  son  was  there,  to-day,  from  New 
York,  too!  and  the  son  must  be  thirty!  And  I  imagine,"  the  girl 
ran  on,  "that  those  terrible,  snowy  winters,  you  know  .  .  .  ! 
Of  course  you  know  what  those  are!"  she  finished,  sympatheti- 
cally. 

Ella  was  bewildered  with  the  rapidity  of  it. 

"For  of  course  you  have  snow  in  Boston?"  Victoria  en- 
couraged her. 

"Oh,  yes — we  have  terrible  winters!"  Ella  agreed. 

"I  have  never  seen  snow!"  Victoria  said,  joyously.  "And 
Bertie — my  brother,  who  has  been  east,  never  saw  it  either,  for 
of  course  he  was  there  in  July — and  you  never  have  it  then,  do 
you?" 

Ella  dissented  somewhat  dazedly,  and  Victoria  went  on: 

"Of  course  we  haven't  been  east,  but  we  do  get  the  illustrated 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  25 

magazines,  and  the  snow  must  be  simply  fascinating! — Except 
for  the  poor  people  in  the  slums,  of  course — we  don't  have  any 
real  poverty  here.  Signor  Maroni  says  that  in  Paris — why 
what  a  Californian  household  throws  away  would  feed  a  whole 
family!  Isn't  it  terrible?  But  I  confess  that  since  it  is  that 
way  Td  like  to  see  it.  Mrs.  Train — who  teaches  my  sisters 
delsarte — laughs  at  me.  She  says  I'll  rush  into  something 
once  too  often,  and  even  my  sisters  think  I'm  insane — but  of 
course  only  time  will  tell  what  Fate  has  in  store  for  us  all!" 

It  was  said  with  such  a  pleasant,  youthful  rush  of  health, 
egotism,  beauty,  and  good  spirits  that  both  the  older  women 
smiled  in  sympathy.  Mrs.  Brewer  indeed  was  entirely  familiar 
with  this  phase  of  Victoria's  somewhat  complex  temperament. 
Moody,  silent,  discontented,  the  girl  might  be  at  times;  at  other 
times  she  was  only  a  particularly  joyous  child.  Then  there 
was  this  eager,  pretentious,  ambitious  aspect,  where  her  little 
French,  her  half-invented,  half-inferred  knowledge  of  distant 
things  and  people,  her  sense  of  her  own  potentiality,  bubbled 
over  in  this  radiant  rush  of  absurdities,  and  she  chattered  with 
a  magnetism  that  captivated  herself  as  well  as  her  listeners. 

"Come,  chatterbox!"  said  her  mother.  "You  know  we  are 
country  folks,  Ella,"  she  said,  with  some  manner;  "we  want  to 
show  you  the  dear  old  San  Rafael  home — not  pretentious,  but 
homey!"  Before  they  went  away  she  received  Ella's  promise 
to  spend  the  next  day  with  them  in  the  country. 

Ella  and  Rob  went  down  to  the  ferry,  at  eleven  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning  on  their  way  to  San  Rafael.  A  dense  white 
fog  enveloped  the  city,  and  through  it  the  fog  horns  on  the  bay 
boomed  steadily.  But  by  the  time  the  little  steamer  reached 
Saucelito  the  veil  was  lifting  and  spokes  of  sunlight  were  pierc- 
ing it.  In  the  old  wooden  ferry  building  that  they  crossed  to 
their  train  at  Saucelito  a  thousand  sparrows  wheeled  and  twit- 
tered; the  smoke  from  the  puffing  engine  spread  and  thinned 
against  the  roof.  Ella  looked  out  with  interest  at  the  old  boat 
houses  and  the  marshes:  the  train  was  hot,  her  velvet  seat 
uncomfortable,  but  the  trip  was  not  long.  Spurred  to  her  best 
by  the  sight  of  Victoria's  fineries,  she  wore  a  figured  lavender 
foulard,  pleated  and  flounced  over  the  small  bustle,  its  skirts 
sweeping  the  ground,  its  tight  sleeve  ending  below  the  elbow, 
some  inches  above  her  "one-button"  gloves  of  gray  kid.  Her 
bonnet  was  covered  with  pansies,  her  intelligent,  spectacled 


26  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

face  concealed  by  a  dotted  veil,  and  she  carried  a  small  parasol 
of  ruffled  black  silk  with  a  collapsible  handle. 

In  sunshiny,  quiet  San  Rafael,  they  walked  past  a  little 
street  of  shops,  and  another  street  of  small  residences,  whose 
picketed  gardens  were  crowded  with  roses  and  fuchsias  and  mar- 
guerites, and  showed  the  need  of  water.  Then,  toward  the 
gentle  rise  of  the  hills  that  encircled  the  sleepy  little  town,  they 
came  to  the  more  pretentious  houses,  big  wooden  mansions  set 
in  acres  of  garden,  and  protected  from  the  road  by  long  stretches 
of  wooden  fences,  inside  of  which  showed  dusty  pepper,  willow 
and  evergreen  trees,  and  great  bushes  of  silvery  pampas. 

One  of  the  largest  and  most  attractive  of  these  homes  Rob 
recognized  as  his  father's.  The  house  stood  well  back  from  the 
quiet,  dusty  road,  in  a  plantation  of  great  trees.  Rob  and  Ella 
looked  at  it  from  the  front  gate,  a  great  double  carriage  gate  of 
slender  rounded  pickets,  painted  gray,  set  in  deep  scallops  be- 
tween the  posts  and  flanked  on  either  side  by  a  narrow  foot 
gate  of  the  same  design.  All  the  gates  were  open,  upon  a  curv- 
ing drive,  beside  which  the  yellow  grass  of  the  dry  western 
summer  pushed  its  way  between  great  overgrown  bushes  of 
syringa  and  fuchsias  and  lauristine.  There  were  masses  of 
smaller  growth,  irregular  lines  of  pungent  marigolds,  wall- 
flowers and  stock,  crowding  ranks  of  shaggy  sweet  William, 
roses  bent  with  bloom,  widespread  periwinkle,  with  the  blue 
flowers  peeping  between  the  dark  rich  leaves,  and  dusty  clumps 
of  that  close-wrapped  shrub  whose  tightly  coiled  leaves  children 
love  to  peel  open.  Between  and  about  them  all  grew  the 
shaggy  yellow  grass.  Among  the  white  of  the  marguerites 
were  brown  blossoms  dead  on  the  bushes,  and  over  the  whole 
dry,  fragrant  mass,  white  butterflies  and  scores  of  tiny  yellow 
butterflies  flickered  and  looped. 

To  the  eye  of  the  eastern  woman  it  all  looked  untidy  and 
fulsome.  Yet  there  was  something  splendid  and  wasteful  about 
it,  too,  very  unlike  the  trim,  orderly  gardens  of  Brookline, 
Massachusetts,  and  not  without  charm. 

The  house  was  large,  with  three  floors  amply  bay-windowed, 
tree-shadows  and  sunshine  falling  upon  open  sashes,  and  the 
white  bedroom  curtains  hardly  stirring  in  the  summer  air.  The 
day  was  extremely  hot,  for  that  latitude,  and  the  family  had 
transferred  rugs,  chairs,  and  newspapers  to  the  <*ajbade  of  the  big 
trees  near  the  house. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     27 

It  was  long  before  the  day  when  the  hostess's  responsibility 
for  her  guests  embraced  tickets  and  meeting  at  trains;  and  Mrs. 
Brewer,  rising  from  the  centre  of  the  group  on  the  lawn,  felt 
only  an  unclouded  pleasure  in  seeing  her  guests.  She  wore  to- 
day a  flowing  skirt  of  blue  cashmere  and  a  scalloped  sacque 
of  white  percale;  an  obvious  bridge  between  church-wear 
and  formal  afternoon  attire.  She  and  her  daughter  were  un- 
ashamedly shelling  peas. 

She  introduced  them,  Esme,  the  oldest,  with  fair  hair  in  a 
fashionable  "French  twist,"  and  a  much-pleated  challis  gown, 
was  twenty-three  years  old — a  slender  girl,  with  a  rather  colour- 
less and  anxious  face  and  a  studiedly  gracious  manner.  Bertie, 
the  one  son,  next  in  point  of  years,  was  away — riding  with  his 
father.  Victoria,  flushed  from  a  walk  home  from  church, 
smilingly  recalled  herself.  Tina,  the  girl  next  in  order  was 
twenty,  stout,  quiet,  and  fair,  with  shrewd,  inscrutable  eyes. 
Louisianna,  the  youngest  of  all,  a  little  beauty  of  seventeen,  was 
most  like  the  handsome  Victoria,  and  like  Tina,  wore  girlish 
white  muslin  and  no  bustle.  Their  broad,  uncorseted  waists 
were  indicated  by  sashes  of  satin  ribbon. 

They  all  sat  down  under  the  trees.  Ella  was  still  in  her 
bonnet  and  gloves;  she  felt  that  she  did  not  know  them  well 
enough  to  offer  to  help  with  the  peas.  She  said,  in  her  crisp, 
pleasantly  incisive  Bostonian  voice: 

"I  shall  get  them  all  mixed,  of  course!  What  big  creatures 
they  are!  You  know  we  have  Brewers  in  Charlestown;  or 
Milton  I  think  the  original  family  came  from.  But  is  that  your 
Brewer?" 

"Papa's  father  came  from  Rochester,  New  York,"  Victoria 
supplied  brightly.  "He  was  an  auctioneer,  wasn't  he,  Mama?" 

"I  believe  so,"  May  said  reluctantly  and  disapprovingly. 
She  felt  that  there  was  no  reason  to  flaunt  these  truths.  Ella's 
interest  instantly  waned. 

"I  don't  know  the  New  York  family  at  all,"  she  said  dis- 
approvingly. "The  Milton  Brewers  are  real  colonial  stock — 
Winship  colony.  But  none  of  them  ever  lived  in  New  York, 
I'm  sure  of  that.  In  fact,"  Ella  went  on,  with  a  wintry  smile, 
"we  feel — we  miserable  Bostonians  who  are  just  foolish  enough 
to  be  proud  of  our  record,  as  the  finest  in  America — we  feel 
that  New  York  is — well,  you  mustn't  ever  mention  New  York 
to«j/" 


28  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Clearly  and  smilingly  delivered,  this  speech  had  a  crushing 
effect  upon  the  group:  Victoria  felt  snubbed,  the  first  beginning 
of  the  pitiful  arrogance  and  snobbery  of  the  well-born  began 
to  dawn  in  her  mind.  She  never  again  would  mention  the 
auctioneer  of  Rochester,  as  long  as  she  lived. 

Fortunately  there  was  an  immediate  interruption:  Stephen 
Brewer  and  his  son  Albert  came  wheeling  in,  on  high-wheel 
bicycles,  from  which  they  descended  with  graceful,  flying  leaps. 
They  came  across  the  yellow  grass  and  the  sickle-shaped  fallen 
eucalyptus  leaves  to  meet  Ella  and  Rob.  Bertie,  the  son,  was 
a  rosy  handsome  young  man,  with  a  laughing  manner,  bright 
thick  hair  inclined  to  curl,  and  a  tiny  patch  of  close-clipped  hair 
under  each  ear,  matching  his  wisp  of  moustache.  Stephen 
Brewer  was  as  usual  kindly  and  grave  in  manner,  pleasant  in 
speech,  and  with  a  householder's  alert  affectionate  interest. in 
wife,  daughters,  and  guests.  Where  his  well-trimmed  beard 
and  moustache  met,  his  smooth  lower  lip  showed  a  trifle  when 
he  smiled;  he  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  gray,  but  his  eyes 
were  youthfully  blue. 

"We  got  out  of  that  job  well,  Bert,"  he  said  indicating  the 
now  shelled  peas,  as  he  sat  squarely  down  beside  his  wife. 
Bertie  swooped  down  to  kiss  the  back  of  Victoria's  neck,  and 
the  vivacious  Victoria,  quite  aware  of  the  effect,  said  lightly: 

"You  may  be  fond  of  me,  Bertie,  but  remember  others  are 
looking  on!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Bertie  was  not  especially  fond  of  her,  he 
was  simply  in  a  mood  that  made  a  little  ostentation  of  some 
sort  necessary  to  him,  as  the  one  gallant  admired  son  of  the 
house.  Victoria  flushed  as  her  mother  and  sisters  exchanged 
glances  over  her  gushing  little  speech,  but  her  father  drew  all 
eyes  to  himself  as  he  said: 

"Well,  here  is  the  junior  member,  Mama!" 

Bertie's  sheepish  grin  and  his  mother's  ecstatic  exclamation 
told  the  tale.  The  fortunate  Bertie  was  to  be  taken  into  the 
family  firm,  as  an  employee,  at  least. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen  thoughtfully,  almost  solemnly,  "I 
spoke  to  the  directors  about  it  yesterday,  and  Bertie  is  to  have 
a  chance  to  see  what  he  can  do.  He  is  to  come  in  to-morrow, 
and  old  Mason  will  start  him  in  the  packing-room.  Start  him 
as  low — just  exactly  as  we'd  start  any  little  unknown  Johnny 
Jones  or  Sammy  Smith,"  he  added,  with  a  smiling  look  of  warn- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  29 

ing  for  his  son.  "If  he  expects  to  rise,  it  must  be  as  his  father 
did — by  his  own  efforts !" 

Bertie  was  heard  to  murmur  appreciatively  and  gruffly  at 
this  point  that  that  was  the  way  he  expected  to  rise,  and  his 
mother  kissed  him  fondly  and  eagerly.  The  return  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  family  caused  a  scattering:  May  was  to  carry 
the  peas  to  the  kitchen,  and  Stephen  hospitably  wished  to  show 
his  brother-in-law  the  place  after  Robert's  years  of  absence. 
Victoria  animatedly  suggested  that  she  walk  about  the  grounds 
with  her  father  and  brother  and  Uncle  Rob,  but  her  father 
smilingly  shook  his  head. 

"Not  just  now,  my  dear!  Some  other  time  you  may  walk 
with  your  uncle  and  me,"  said  Stephen,  good-naturedly.  "But 
I  think  your  mother  wants  help  in  the  kitchen  now!" 

"Tina  and  Lou  are  going  to  help,  to-day !"  Victoria  per- 
sisted eagerly.     Her  father  looked  at  her  mildly  and  said: 

"Vicky."  And  with  a  hot  blush  she  subsided,  slipping 
away  with  Lou  in  abashed  silence. 

"As  for  Tina,"  May  said  archly,  "she  has  a  very  important 
message  to  take  to  Mr.  Yelland,  at  the  rectory.  Mr.  Yelland 
is  our  very  handsome  young  minister,  Aunt  Ella,"  she  ex- 
plained smilingly,  addressing  Ella  as  if  for  the  happily  blushing 
Tina,  "and  several  of  our  prettiest  young  ladies  have  become 
quite  religious  since  he  came!" 

Tina's  complacent  expression  changed  somewhat  as  her 
mother  spoke.  The  reference  to  Mr.  Yelland  was  thrilling,  but 
to  be  classed  with  several  other  impressionable  girls  was  humil- 
iating, and  Tina's  pride  was  touched. 

"I  always  went  to  church,  Mama!"  she  said,  seriously  re- 
proachful. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  did,  ducky  dear!"  May  said  merrily, 
"so  run  along  with  your  message,  and  have  your  little  happy 
time!" 

Ella  presently  found  herself  alone  on  the  lawn  among  the 
scattered  chairs,  with  the  oldest  of  these  strange,  vivacious 
creatures. 

"Esme?"  she  ventured. 

"Yes,  Esme!"  the  rather  sallow,  somewhat  large-featured  girl 
answered,  with  bright,  hard,  unnecessary  laughter.  "And  by 
no  means  a  very  satisfactory  niece,  as  I'm  afraid  you'll  find, 
Aunt  Ella!     You'll  fall  in  love  with  Vicky,  she's  the  popular 


3o     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

one,  and  she  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  be  popular! 
Poor  Vick — but  I'd  give  anything  in  the  world  to  be  able  to 
drift  along  on  the  surface  of  life  as  she  does!" 

This  rush  of  frankness  rather  amazed  Ella,  who  made  a  vague 
sound  in  her  throat  and  smiled  aimlessly. 

"Your  brother  seems  quite  devoted  to — to  Victoria,"  she 
said  presently,  to  say  something.     Esme  laughed  again,  heart- 

"Just  one  of  Vick's  little  by-plays!"  she  said  indulgently. 
''Dear  old  Vicky — she's  rich.  No,  Bertie  isn't  especially  fond 
of  her,"  she  added,  musically  and  slowly;  "he's  had  the  very 
queer  taste  to  select  his  oldest  sister  for  his  chum.  Dear  old 
Bertie!  He  and  I  have  had  some  wonderful  good  times  to- 
gether," Esme  mused — "unknown  to  the  rest!"  she  added, 
after  thought.  For  it  occurred  to  her  that  if  Aunt  Ella  men- 
tioned this  statement  to  the  atrociously  frank  and  heartless 
family,  it  might  be  denied. 

She  fell  into  a  dream  in  which  she  married  somebody  un- 
known and  had  Bertie  a  great  deal  at  her  lovely  home  in  San 
Francisco.  The  day  was  dreamy  and  the  air  hotly  aromatic 
under  the  peppers  and  poplars  and  eucalyptus.  At  the  house, 
wire  doors  slammed  and  indistinct  voices  laughed  and  called. 
A  white  horse,  as  he  grazed  with  other  horses  in  Sunday  idleness 
in  the  paddock,  neighed  shrilly;  the  windmill  creaked  and 
splashed  in  the  silence. 

"You  have  a  lovely  home  here,"  Ella  offered. 

"Isn't  it?  Ideal!"  Esme  responded  lifelessly.  Presently 
Lou  came  out,  flushed  from  the  kitchen,  and  silently  sank  into 
a  chair.  Esme  glanced  at  her  resentfully;  it  had  just  occurred 
to  the  older  girl  that  she  might  gracefully  apologize  to  Aunt 
Ella  for  not  having  called  upon  her  at  the  hotel,  but  Lou 
might  break  into  a  disrespectful  snicker  at  this  remark. 

Lou,  after  Vicky,  was  the  prettiest  of  the  sisters,  in  delicious 
early  bloom  at  seventeen.  Esme,  Vick,  and  Tina  were  all  se- 
cretly convinced  that  Lou  was  going  to  be  a  great  belle,  and 
probably  eclipse  them  all  where  love-affairs  were  concerned. 
Already  there  was  something  almost  sinister  in  Lou's  silences, 
her  calm  knowledge  of  her  own  charm.  It  was  known  that  the 
Talbot  boy  had  walked  home  with  her  from  a  village  concert, 
and  that  she  had  received  a  birthday  gift  of  moss  roses  from 
him;  but  Lou  was  maddeningly  secretive  about  her  own  affairs. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     31 

She  never  chattered,  as  did  the  older  three;  she  never  talked 
much,  under  any  circumstances.  Indeed,  even  upon  the  men 
that  she  was  destined  to  enslave,  it  would  be  eyes  and  dimples 
and  soft  little  confiding  hands  that  would  stamp  Louisianna's 
likeness;  she  was  not  a  reader,  not  a  thinker;  she  neither  sang 
like  Victoria,  nor  practised  delsarte,  and  painted  on  mirrors, 
like  Esme,  nor  would  she  attend  three  hot  church  services  a 
day,  like  Tina.  She  was  lazy,  and  she  thought  too  much  of  her 
clothes,  and  too  much  of  that  vague  class  of  creatures  known  to 
her  mother  and  Carra,  the  old  coloured  nurse,  as  "the  boys." 

Ella  went  upstairs,  to  big  airy  rooms  furnished  in  walnut, 
and  comfortably  shabby,  and  laid  aside  her  wraps  before  lunch. 
The  beds  were  big  and  flat,  the  pillow-slips  had  mottoes — "Good 
Night"  and  "Good  Morning" —  embroidered  on  them  in  red 
cotton.  All  the  floors  were  completely  carpeted  in  dark  colours, 
and  the  deep  windows  had  draperies  of  dull  reps;  the  effect  was 
of  space  and  darkness.  There  was  only  one  bathroom,  far 
down  the  hall  past  bedroom  doors,  but  several  of  the  bedrooms 
were  joined  by  little  passageways  where  there  were  "stationary 
wash-stands"  of  brown  marble.  Ella  turned  up  her  cuffs 
and  washed  her  hands,  combed  back  her  hair,  and  readjusted 
her  glasses;  the  girls'  blooming  faces  emerged  from  the  rough 
towel  as  fragrantly  fresh  as  creams  and  powders,  lip-stick  and 
rouge  would  ever  make  their  daughters'  faces,  and  they  all 
went  downstairs  together,  hungry  and  good-natured,  at  two 
o'clock. 

They  were  eleven  at  table,  for  just  before  lunch  old  Reuben 
Crabtree  and  Miss  Fanny  came  in.  The  old  man  was  care- 
fully escorted  to  a  place  of  honour  at  the  table  and  lowered  ten- 
derly into  it.  He  was  feeble,  rosy,  talkative,  with  his  fair  skin 
showing  through  the  sparse  white  hair  on  his  head  and  face. 
He  had  a  certain  tremulousness  of  speech,  continually  corn- 
batted  by  the  masterful  upward  swing  of  a  deep  old  jaw;  his 
eyes  did  not  flit  about  the  company  as  his  grandchildren's  did, 
but  he  looked  earnestly  at  the  person  he  happened  to  be  ad- 
dressing, like  a  very  young  child.  He  embraced  his  long- 
absent-son  with  a  little  emotion,  telling  him  that  now  he  was 
where  he  belonged,  and  repeating  slowly  to  Mrs.  Brewer  more 
than  once  that  he  had  told  Robbit  that  now  he  was  where  he  be- 
longed. 


32  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Miss  Fanny  was  keen,  sharp,  and  talkative,  beginning  to  be 
grizzled,  rustling  in  black  silk,  a  self-conscious  fun-maker.  All 
the  girls  fluttered  about  her,  they  were  afraid  of  her  satire,  but 
they  laughed  when  she  said  that  the  clothing  of  some  unknown 
woman  on  the  boat  must  have  "come  out  of  the  ark!"  They 
laughed  when  she  called  Bertie  a  "dude"  too,  for  the  word  was 
new.  "'But  for  goodness  sake  don't  say  I  told  you!'"  she 
quoted  gaily.  The  phrase,  from  a  popular  song,  was  the  very 
latest  thing.  Fanny  could  be  pugnacious  when  her  face  got 
red  and  she  beat  the  end  of  her  nose;  but  she  was  in  great 
good  humour  to-day. 

The  meal  was  served  by  Addie,  a  sloppy,  cheerful  maid,  and 
by  Carra,  the  tall,  deep-bosomed  old  negress,  with  coarse  gray 
wool  showing  under  a  handkerchief  turban.  This  gaunt  old 
soul  had  come  over  with  Reuben  from  San  Francisco.  But 
she  was  evidently  comfortably  at  home  in  the  Brewer  house, 
too,  addressing  the  young  people  readily  by  name,  and  directing 
Addie. 

The  family  immediately  sat  down  to  luncheon,  or  dinner,  as 
they  called  it  then.  The  meal  was  lavish.  Of  course  Mrs. 
Brewer  knew  that  for  a  dinner-party  she  should  have  had  oyster 
patties,  and  then  soup,  served  by  herself  from  the  Canton  tu- 
reen, and  then  formal  courses  to  follow,  but  this,  as  she  explained, 
was  only  a  family  party.  So  there  were  already  soda  crackers 
and  pickles  and  jelly  and  preserved  peaches  scattered  up  and 
down  the  table,  and  great  pyramids  of  delicious  sliced  bread, 
coloured  flat  glass  plates  holding  thick  circular  slices  of  butter, 
teaspoons  upright  in  a  pink  glass  jar,  and  a  blistered  blue  glass 
pitcher  full  of  creamy  milk. 

The  young  people  started  briskly  in  on  bread  and  milk  and 
sweets,  and  their  father  carved  a  great  ham,  while  the  mother 
served  fried  chicken.  Ella,  at  first  almost  appalled  by  the 
quantity  of  food,  found  herself  ravenous  and  everything  good. 
There  were  hot  biscuits  but  no  vegetables,  except  two  kinds  of 
potatoes  and  a  great  platter  of  fresh  lettuce  and  sliced  toma- 
toes; the  table  speedily  became  disordered,  the  conversation 
was  almost  entirely  of  food.  It  was  the  fashion  to  stuff,  to 
come  back  for  more,  to  protest  almost  breathlessly  against  the 
third  helping.  But  as  everyone  was  in  a  sympathetic  mood, 
no  harm  was  done,  and  presently  Carra  and  Addie  carried 
away  the  main   platters   and   plates,  leaving  the   bread   and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     33 

butter,  and  the  little  mussy  butter  dishes,  and  the  wine  glasses 
and  gravy-boat,  and  the  pickles  and  crackers,  and  all  the  odds 
and  ends  of  biscuit  and  bread,  into  which  confusion  the  melting 
pyramid  of  ice-cream  was  triumphantly  set,  and  hastily  helped. 
Then  there  was  cake,  and  strong  tea,  and  a  general  loitering 
and  nibbling  until  four  o'clock. 

Bertie  and  Victoria  and  the  cheerful  Aunt  Fanny  rather 
monopolized  the  conversation;  Stephen  Brewer  was  given  only 
to  hospitable  monosyllables  regarding  the  food  at  the  table, 
and  Mrs.  Brewer  devoted  herself  to  her  old  father,  who,  very 
happy  in  the  general  pleasant  confusion,  ate  heartily,  removing 
from  his  mouth  chewed  particles  of  food  too  hard  for  him,  with 
his  fingers,  to  the  edge  of  his  plate.  Bertie  talked  of  the 
fascinating  novelty,  the  telephone:  in  New  York  there  was  a 
hotel,  he  said,  that  was  going  to  have  a  telephone  on  every  floor. 
Miss  Fanny  turned  this,  to  absurdity  by  suggesting  that  per- 
sons on  the  fifth  floor,  say,  would  some  day  be  telephoning  to 
friends  on  some  other  floor  in  the  same  building,  and  they  all 
laughed.  But  Stephen,  while  admitting  that  the  new  inven- 
tion would  always  be  chiefly  for  business  use,  electrified  the 
family  by  announcing  that  Crabtree  and  Company  would 
probably  have   a  telephone  installed,  were  talking  about  it. 

The  sound  of  the  doorbell  clattered  through  the  house, 
from  the  shaking  big  bell  that  was  aligned  with  other  bells 
high  up  on  the  kitchen  wall,  and  Addie  was  heard  to  say,  "  Both- 
eration!" 

"The  door,  Addie.  It's  probably  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harry  Crab- 
tree,"  May  said,  to  the  maid.  "My  brother  Harry  and  his 
wife,"  she  explained  smilingly  to  Ella;  "and  when  you  know 
them  you  know  us  all!" 

"I  haven't  seen  old  Harry  for  years!"  Robert  said,  ex- 
panded and  breathless  from  food.     "They  have  kids,  May?" 

"Very  nice  kids!"  Esme  began,  laughing  at  the  slang.  But 
May  interrupted  her. 

"Esme — darling — does  Mama  like  that  word?" 

"Children,"  Esme  murmured,  chilled. 

"Harry  and  Lucy  have  a  lovely  girl,  Alice,  sixteen,"  May 
expanded,  after  a  tender,  smiling  look  at  the  shamed  Esme, 
"and  a  boy,  Georgie,  who  is  twelve.  He  is  rather  delicate, 
but  Alice  is  a  dear  child." 

"Don't  forget  Nelly,  Mama!"  Bertie  suggested. 


34     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well,  Nelly  isn't  a  Crabtree,"  May  said,  flushing  a  little. 
"That's  Lucy's  child  by  a  first  marriage — a  pretty,  nice  girl," 
she  explained. 

"The  sort  of  prettiness  that  fades!"  Esme  added  quickly. 

"You  wish  it  did!"  her  brother  said,  pleasantly. 

Esme  gave  him  a  withering  glance,  her  lips  set  tightly. 

"You  wish  Dave  Dudley  was  half  as  crazy  about  you!"  the 
boy  pursued  gaily. 

This  seemed  to  break  Esme's  lately  erected  barriers.  Tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"Mama "   she   began   impetuously.     But   Mrs.    Brewer 

was  looking  expectantly  at  the  door. 

"That  can't  have  been  your  aunt  Lucy,"  she  said  vaguely. 
But  Tina,  who  had  returned  from  a  little  trip  of  discovery, 
said,  rather  discontentedly: 

"Aunt  Lucy  is  coming,  though,  with  Nelly  and  Alice;  they're 
just  at  the  gate.     Davy  Dudley  is  with  them." 

"Well,    who    rang    then?"    demanded    her    mother. 

Tina  looked  with  resentment  at  Victoria. 

"It  was  Signor  Maroni  and  his  son,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"*I  wish  Victoria  wouldn't  ask  such  freaks  to  break  into  our 
Sundays!" 

Victoria,  to  whom  this  announcement  was  likewise  embar- 
rassing, gave  her  mother  a  panicky  glance. 

"Oh,  heavens,  what'll  I  do  with  them?  I  just  casually 
said  that  some  day  they  ought  to  come  over!  He'll  expect 
to  be  asked  to  play,  Mama!     What  shall  I  do?" 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  ask  them  to  stroll  or  something," 
said  Mrs.  Brewer,  in  annoyance.  Like  everyone  else  she  was 
feeling  the  uncomfortable  heat  of  the  hottest  hour  and  the  full 
meal.  "You'll"  have  to  get  them  out  of  the  way.  As  far  as 
sitting  down  and  listening  to  music  goes,  I  don't  think  any  of  us 
feel  quite  up  to  that!"  she  finished,  with  her  cheerful   laugh. 

"We  can  play  some  tennis — doubles,  hey,  Lou?"  Bertie 
said,  adding  one  more  drop  of  misery  to  Victoria's  cup,  as  she 
went  unhappily  out  to  find  her  music  master.  Ordinarily 
Bertie  always  asked  Victoria  to  play  with  him,  and  although 
the  somewhat  passionate  and  jealous  young  creature  ofttimes 
resented  Bertie's  magnificent  supremacy,  still  she  liked  to  be 
his  favourite. 

Signor  Maroni,  an  oily,  thin  old  man,  with  a  lined  face  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  35 

colour  of  leather,  and  gray  locks  falling  each  side  of  his  ears, 
nevertheless  had  a  charming  smile  and  a  courteous  manner,  as 
he  rose  to  greet  his  pupil.  He  and  his  big,  square,  black- 
looking  son  were  sitting  on  the  front  porch,  seeming  warm  from 
their  walk,  and  somewhat  dusty  as  to  clothing.  Sigismund 
Maroni  showed  his  Jewish  blood — his  mother  was  a  Hebrew, 
broadly  and  largely  built,  intense  and  energetic,  and  he  was 
like  her.  He  towered,  coarse,  moustached,  smiling,  above  his 
little  father. 

Victoria  had  a  truer  sense  of  hospitality  than  she  knew,  truer 
even  than  that  of  her  effusive  mother,  and  her  first  thought  was 
that  these  guests  had  surely  breakfasted  late,  missed  their 
lunch,  and  so  acquired  an  appetite  for  some  sort  of  tea.  And  if 
she  might  have  taken  them  in  to  the  disordered  table,  brought  in 
bread  and  ham  and  tea,  and  gathered  up  the  cake,  she  would 
have  done  .so  delightedly;  she  was  neither  critical  nor  dis- 
criminating; she  would  have  bloomed  into  her  happiest  and 
most  attractive  self  in  ministering  to  them. 

But  at  twenty-two  Victoria  was  not  out  of  the  nursery.  She 
knew  she  would  be  actually  punished  for  such  daring,  and  she 
knew  that  even  as  it  was  she  would  be  reproved  for  her  share  in 
this  awkward  episode.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
Sunday  was  disappointing  and  dull,  the  light  glaring,  and  the 
whole  sorry  scheme  of  things  a  failure. 

Uncomfortably  smiling,  she  asked  brief  questions.  The 
family  had  streamed  out  a  side  door,  and  was  gathering  again 
under  the  trees,  she  could  see  Alice  Crabtree's  long  braids,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Nelly's  blonde  head,  and  the  echoes  of 
Nelly's  giddy  laughter.     Conversation  on  the  porch  lagged. 

"Pop,  you  and  I  are  expected  at  Aunt  Elsa's,"  Sigismund 
Maroni  said,  suddenly.  Victoria  could  almost  imagine  this 
odious  man,  with  his  black  moustache,  to  be  laughing  at  her. 

"But  are  we  to  have  no  music?"  the  old  man  asked,  getting 
up  obediently  like  a  good  but  disappointed  child.  Victoria's 
wild  imagination  suddenly  visualized  her  leading  them  into  the 
parlour,  opening  the  grand  piano.  The  strains  of  exquisite 
music  would  lure  the  elders  in,  to  admire,  and  then  there  might 
be  tea,  laughter,  the  remains  of  the  cocoanut  layer  cake.     .     .     • 

But  even  in  this  dream  she  was  too  late,  Addie  and  Lotta, 
who  was  the  cook,  at  this  moment  walked  across  the  side  lawn; 
they  would  go  to  the  graveyard,  and  then  to  seven  o'clock 


36     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Benediction,  and  come  home  at  nine,  to  wash  the  dishes  the 
family  would  leave  from  a  pick-up  supper.  This  would  be 
ended  at  about  eleven;  then  Lotta  and  Addie  would  soak  the 
laundry  for  a  large  family  of  women,  which  they  would  be  hang- 
ing out  when  Victoria  loitered  downstairs  at  nine  o'clock  Mon- 
day morning.  To  be  sure  she  would  wait  on  herself  at  break- 
fast, her  mother  insisted  on  that,  she  said  it  was  one  of  the  things 
that  kept  "help"  contented.  Only  the  master  and  Bertie 
got  any  sort  of  service  on  Mondays,  and  even  that  was  apt  to  be 
from  mother  and  sisters. 

"Look  me  up  if  you  come  to  New  York,  Miss  Brewer,"  said 
Sigismund  Maroni.  They  were  going,  and  she  felt  sick  and 
ashamed.  For  weeks  the  memory  of  her  helpless  inhospitality 
would  bring  the  blood  to  Victoria's  sensitive  face.  She  had  a 
last  impulse  toward  easy  warmth,  remembered  that  her  grand- 
father, in  the  room  directly  over  the  piano,  was  taking  his  after- 
noon nap,  stifled  the  impulse,  and  walked  slowly  and  uncom- 
fortably with  her  guests  to  the  gate. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  New  York?"  she  asked. 

"  Sure.  And  I  want  to  take  the  old  folks  with  me,"  Sigismund 
said.  "There  are  people  there,"  he  added,  "who  are  glad 
enough  to  pay  my  father  to  hear  him  play  the  piano!" 

She  remembered  it  when  she  walked  back.  And  she  told 
herself  that  she  hated  him!  Yet  the  memory  of  his  big  figure 
swaggering  along  beside  the  little  bent  one  was  vaguely  admir- 
able, too. 

"Pa  tell  you  that  Bertie's  going  into  the  firm?"  Esme  asked 
her,  in  the  doorway.  Esme  had  watched  the  tennis  until  she 
could  bear  being  baked  and  ignored  no  longer,  and  was  going 
upstairs  to  read  "Strathmore,"  a  contraband  article,  now  hid- 
den under  her  mattress,  and  eat  a  delicacy  then  known  as 
"French   candy." 

"Into  the  firm!"  Victoria  said  scornfully.  "He'll  be  only  a 
clerk!     Did  Pa  say  anything  about  me?"     She  added. 

"Why  should  he?"    Esme  asked. 

"Why,  you  know  very  well  that  I  talked  him  and  Mama — 
almost! — into  letting  me  go  and  study  to  be  a  nurse,"  Victoria 
said  eagerly,  and  not  quite  truthfully.  "At  the  Children's 
Hospital,  where  you  don't  have  anything  but  women  and  chil- 
dren anyway — and  he  said  he'd  see!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     37 

There  was  an  element  of  self-protection  in  the  eager  rush 
with  which  the  subject  had  been  changed.  Victoria  suffered 
with  agonizing  jealousy  of  Bertie — or  rather,  of  Bertie's  life. 
His  ready  pocket-money,  years  ago,  his  airs  when  he  had 
escorted  her  to  the  dentist,  his  independence  in  college  days, 
interesting  his  sisters  and  mother  with  the  mere  accounts  of 
dinners  at  the  Palace,  and  of  bills  at  the  Orpheum,  and  lately, 
his  miraculous  and  enchanting  visit  of  two  months  in  the  fabled 
eastern  states  had  all  made  her  almost  writhe  with  envy.  And 
now,  he  was  to  go  in  with  Pa,  and  would  put  on  goodness  knows 
what  airs  on  that  account,  while  she,  burning  to  share  all  this 
glorious  youth  and  life  with  him,  must  go  on  listening,  watching, 
admiring,  envying 

"He's  going  to  get  seventy-five  dollars  to  start  with,"  Esme 
tossed  off,  in  conclusion,  as  she  went  upon  her  way. 

Victoria  never  forgot  the  moment.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
unpalatable  of  her  life.     This  was  too  much. 

She  stood  still,  in  the  doorway  of  the  dark,  square  hallway, 
and  life  was  unendurably  bitter  in  her  mouth.  Seventy-five 
dollars  a  month!  To  waste,  to  spend,  to  fling  about  royally. 
Bertie  might  ask  his  friends  to  lunch,  he  might  buy  himself  a 

new  tennis  racket !     While  she,  cleverer  and  better  read 

than  Bertie,  Would  go  on  teasing  Pa  for  a  dollar,  or  two  dol- 
lars  ! 

Slow  angry  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  herself  in 
the  hatrack  mirror;  the  ugly  glare  of  the  afternoon  sunlight  cast 
an  unbecoming  shine  upon  her  face,  and  her  hair  was  mussed. 
Slowly  she  dragged  herself  upstairs,  and  slowly  washed  her  face 
and  brushed  her  hair. 

But  here,  at  her  own  better-lighted  mirror,  she  suddenly 
perceived  herself  to  be  looking  unusually  pretty  and  serious, 
and  this  was  enough  to  restore  her  to  a  melancholy  but  ex- 
quisite pleasure  in  life.  She  descended  the  stairs  dramatically 
and  joined  the  group  of  elders  under  the  trees  with  the  air  of  a 
leading  lady. 

As  she  quietly,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  took  a  chair,  her  Aunt 
Lucy,  Mrs.  Harry  Crabtree,  gave  her  a  shrewd  but  welcoming 
glance.  Lucy  was  an  alert,  stout,  dark  woman,  with  heavy 
eyebrows  and  prominent  frog-like  eyes.  She  wore  glasses  on 
a  chain  and  had  a  great  many  definite  opinions.  One  of  them 
was  that  she  had  thrown  away  far  more  brilliant  prospects  in 


38     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

life  to  marry  the  gentle,  unsuccessful  younger  son  of  Reuben 
Crabtree,  some  sixteen  years  ago,  and  another  that  she  herself 
was  a  tremendously  capable  woman,  a  pattern  among  the  wives 
and  mothers  of  her  day.  Lucy  was  always  ready  with  promising 
schemes,  and  when  other  women  mildly  marvelled  at  them,  she 
had  a  crisp  and  satisfied  way  of  implying  that  it  was  only  be- 
cause she  did  not  permit  herself  to  be  engulfed  and  buried  in 
petty  household  drudgeries  as  they  did  that  she  had  time  for 
these  glorious  plans.  She  was  one  of  those  fortunate  persons 
who  can  make  listeners  believe  that  they  have  achieved  some- 
thing by  merely  talking  about  it;  Lucy  could  somehow 
make  an  overdue  bill  seem  more  creditable  to  her  than  many  a 
woman  could  a  bank-account.  She  was  amazingly  glib;  and 
essentially  an  egotist.  All  their  circle,  May  and  Fanny  in- 
cluded, were  convinced  that  Lucy  was  a  marvellous  manager, 
and  that  the  financial  difficulties  of  the  family  were  entirely 
Harry's  fault,  and  would  have  been  infinitely  worse  with  any 
other  wife  than  Lucy  to  handle  them.  When  she  boasted  of  the 
economical  arrangement  she  had  made  to  have  the  children's 
pictures  taken,  or  to  have  the  stove  moved,  nobody  thought 
to  ask  her  simply  why  these  things  need  be  done  at  all.  Lucy 
had  always  anticipated  any  such  possibility.  She  was  one  of 
the  few  women  of  her  generation  who  would  admit  quite  openly 
to  poverty,  and  this  made  all  other  women  feel  that  she  was  ex- 
ceptionally practical. 

"Three  years  old!  May  Brewer  gave  it  to  me.  Cleaned 
'em  myself  with  Spanish  bark!"  said  Lucy,  when  kindly  com- 
ment was  made  upon  her  hats,  frocks,  or  gloves.  Twenty  years 
later  all  women  would  be  saying  these  things.  But  in  the 
inarticulate  days  of  Cleveland's  first  administration,  Lucy's 
honesty  was  unique. 

"Well,  Vick,  who  are  you  in  love  with  now?"  she  asked  the 
girl  to-day,  with  her  brisk  manner,  after  she  had  repeated  for  the 
tenth  time  the  news  that  Uncle  Harry  and  Georgie  couldn't 
come.  "Oh,  Aunt  Lucy,  aren't  you  awful!"  Vick  protested, 
smiling.  "I'm  going  to  be  a  trained  nurse — ask  Papa,"  she 
countered,  smiling. 

"We'll  see  about  that!"  Stephen  smiled,  allowing  her  to 
play  with  the  fantastic  notion. 

"Vick  would  soon  get  tired  of  wiping  up  bathroom  floors 
and  taking  orders  from  a  disagreeable  head-nurse!"  May  said 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     39 

teasingly.  "It's  not  all  flirting  with  a  handsome  young  doctor, 
I  assure  you,  Vick!" 

"Oh,  Mama,  I  know  it's  not!"  the  girl  defended  herself  un- 
comfortably. 

"You  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're  talking  about!" 
her  father  said,  faintly  annoyed.  "I  don't  want  any  one  of  my 
daughters  to  get  the  idea  she's  strong-minded!"  he  added  firmly. 
Victoria  subsided,  impressed,  but  Stephen  did  not  leave  her  long 
in  discomfort.  Good-naturedly  he  invited  her  to  walk  with  him 
to  see  how  the  tennis  was  going,  and  the  girl  eagerly  sprang  to 
her  feet,  hugging  his  arm  as  they  sauntered  away. 

Now,  his  wife  thought  anxiously,  was  the  moment  in  which 
Mrs.  Bob  and  Mrs.  Harry  might  naturally  be  expected  to  talk 
of  farewells.  But  Ella  and  Lucy  sat  on  comfortably; — they  had 
missed  the  five-forty  train,  she  reflected,  or  at  least  they  could 
only  catch  it  now  by  a  scramble.  The  next  was  at  seven-eight, 
and  there  was  a  later  train  at  ten-ten. 

Lucy  knew  this,  if  Ella  did  not,  May  reflected  in  exasperation. 
Ten  minutes  more — five  minutes  more — and  the  Robert  Crab- 
trees  and  the  three  Harry  Crabtrees  would  have  to  be  asked 
to  supper.  She  could  have  slapped  Lucy  when  Lucy  said 
idly: 

"Wonderful  here,  under  the  trees.  I  always  think  the  late 
afternoon  is  the  pleasantest  time  of  all,  in  summer.  Look  at 
the  light  there  through  the  willow — wonderful  red  colour.  You 
were  a  Miss  Sewall,  weren't  you?"  she  said  to  Ella,  to  whom  they 
were  all  speaking  pointedly  rather  than  risking  the  use  of  her 
name. 

"I — yes,  I  was!"  Ella  answered  nervously,  blinking.  "My 
mother  was  a  Wade — Sayrah  Wade." 

"We  were  Southerners — Bunkers,"  Lucy  claimed,  elegantly. 

Ella  merely  looked  anxiously  polite  at  this,  but  May  felt  a 
little  resentful. 

"Crabtree's  Crossing,  Illinois,  was  named  for  Pa's  father," 
she  stated.     "  I  suppose  Bob  has  told  you  that?" 

"We  have  no  branch  of  the  Daughters  of  the  Revolution  here, 
yet,"  Lucy  said;  "  I  should  like  it  so  much!  I  was  wondering, 
May,"  she  added  animatedly,  "if  it  wouldn't  pay  me  to  get  in 
touch  with  the  national  headquarters!  I  believe  I  could  manage 
a  western  branch,  going  to  Benecia  and  Marysville,  you  know — " 

"Pa's  grandfather  fought  in  the  Revolution,"  May  answered 


4o     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

nervously.  In  her  mind  she  said,  "The  cake — the  cold  meat — 
maybe  Vick  would  make  chocolate " 

"I  believe  I'll  do  that  very  thing,"  Lucy  was  murmuring 
interestedly.  "They  must  have  to  have  a  secretary,  somebody 
to  manage  a  branch!  And  it's  exactly  the  sort  of  work  I  could 
do.  You  see,"  she  said  aloud  to  Ella,  "my  Georgie's  the  only 
Crabtree  grandson,  after  all!" 

"Oh,  come — come!"  May  protested  laughingly.  "Where 
does  Bertie  come  in?" 

"My  dear,  your  Bertie  doesn't  count  at  all!"  Lucy  assured 
her  lightly.     "A  daughter's  child,  you  see.     It's  the  name!" 

This  was  a  new  and  humiliating  point,  to  May.  She  saw 
its  force,  and  subsided  into  resentful  silence. 

"I  wish  Rob  and  I  had  had  a  boy,"  Ella  said,  with  her 
crisp  definiteness.  "Too  bad!  Not  only  for  the  Crabtree 
name,"  she  added,  "but  there's  a  great  deal  of  furniture  and 
silver  that  my  sister  has,  but  that  my  grandmother  said  was  to 
be  divided  among  our  children.  My  sister  has  three  children: 
Grace,  Kate,  and  Tom!"  finished  Ella,  shooting  the  names  at 
them  like  projectiles. 

"The  Bunkers — that  is  the  direct  line  from  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Conde  Bunker,  have  all  the  old  things  of  the  family,  of  course, 
at  the  homestead  in  Asheville,"  Lucy  added.  May  felt  the 
colour  come  into  her  face.  Idiotic  fashion  for  Lucy  Crabtree  to 
talk,  May  fumed.  Lucy,  who  did  her  own  work  in  a  shabby 
little  cottage  in  the  Mission !  In  their  fifteen  years'  acquaintance 
May  had  never  heard  such  rubbish  before! 

Nettled,  she  was  casting  about  for  a  fresh  subject,  when  Lucy 
said  graciously  to  Bob's  wife: 

"One  feels  a  barbarian  here!  It  is  like  hearing  from  home  to 
realize  that  the  east  is  still  the  east.  How  long  shall  you  be 
here,  Ella — I  must  call  you  Ella!" 

Instantly  May's  attention  was  diverted,  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward eagerly  to  hear  the  reply. 

For  May  Brewer,  who,  as  happy  wife,  mother,  sister,  and 
daughter,  was  naturally  the  centre  of  this  large  group,  had  been 
secretly  fretting  ever  since  she  had  had  a  few  minutes  private 
conversation  with  her  husband,  just  before  the  late  mid-day 
dinner. 

It  had  taken  place  upstairs,  in  their  large,  orderly  bedroom, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     41 

while  Mrs.  Brewer  was  changing  her  percale  sacque  for  a  flowered 
satine  gown,  and  her  husband  was  brushing  up  for  dinner  at  the 
stationary  wash-stand.  He  had  rubbed  his  fine  full  head  of 
hair  about,  rumpled  his  beard,  splashed  his  face,  and  towelled 
vigorously.  Now  he  was  combing  his  thick  hair  into  place 
and  bending  over  to  eye  himself  closely  in  the  great  mirror  of  the 
marble-topped  bureau. 

"May,"  said  he,  "have  you  any  idea  what  brings  Bob  home?', 

May  Brewer  instantly  had  come  to  attention.  Her  husband 
loved  her,  and  trusted  her  with  every  possible  domestic  respon- 
sibility; but  this  was  a  tone  she  rarely  heard,  a  tone  he  reserved 
for  business. 

"No,  dear — why?"  she  fluttered. 

"Just  wondering!"  And  Stephen  Brewer's  soft  red  mouth, 
visible  in  his  thick  beard,  formed  for  whistling.  "Of  course, 
it  would  be  somewhat  complicated  for  me  if  he  has  come  west 
with  any  idea  of  entering  the  firm,"  he  presently  added. 

"Why  should  he?"  the  woman  said,  promptly  on  the  defen- 
sive. "  You've  made  it  what  it  is — you've  worried  and  borrowed 
money  and  slaved  over  it!  I  fail  to  see" — May  was  getting 
heated — "I  fail  to  see  what  earthly  claim  Robert  has!  He  with- 
drew, just  as  Harry  did " 

"Well,  well,  well!"  Stephen  soothed  her.  "It  was  just  a 
notion -" 

"What  did  he  say?"  his  wife  demanded.  For  where  her 
man's  happiness,  or  her  children's  welfare,  were  concerned,  she 
was  always  alert  and  apprehensive. 

"Nothing  much.  But  he  asked  your  father  how  old  Rossi 
was  getting  along,  and — as  luck  would  have  it! — your  father  said 
that  the  old  man  was  retiring  pretty  soon.  My  taking  Bertie 
in  might  make  it  awkward  to  refuse  Bob." 

"But  Pa  didn't  say  anything  about  the  mail-order  depart- 
ment?" 

"Oh,  no — no!  It  was  just  a  notion.  What  has  Mrs.  Robert 
done  with  her  Boston  house?" 

"Rented  it."  Mrs.  Brewer's  eyes  had  widened  with  sudden 
alarm.  "She  had  inherited  some  money,  you  know.  They 
spoke  as  if  they  might  be  here  for  some  weeks." 

"Bob,"  his  brother-in-law  had  predicted  firmly,  "would  be 
absolutely  no  good  to  me,  in  the  firm!     None  whatever!" 

And  on  this  dark  note  the  conversation  had  ended. 


42     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

But  it  was  her  memory  of  this  conversation,  with  its  first 
thin  wedge  of  fear,  that  May  Brewer  had  in  mind  when  Lucy 
quite  innocently  asked  Ella  how  long  her  western  visit  was  to  be, 
and  Ella  quite  innocently  carried  the  subject  nearest  her 
thoughts  a  little  further. 

"We  don't  know,"  Ella  had  said.  And  then,  "Is — is  your 
husband — Harry,  I  mean,  in  the  firm?" 

Lucy  said  briskly,  without  looking  at  May: 

"Ought  to  be,  of  course!  For  Father  Crabtree  is  getting 
on — wonderful  old  man  that  he  is,  and  naturally,  with  the 
business  growing — as  everyone  says  it  is! — Stephen  can't  be 
expected " 

"Stephen  has  been  very  fortunate  in  getting  splendid  men  to 
work  with  him,"  May  said,  quickly.  She  and  Lucy  were  out  in 
the  lists  now,  and  steel  was  ringing  on  steel,  but  Ella  was  quite 
unconscious  of  it. 

"Still,  the  business  is  Father  Crabtree's!"  Lucy  said.  "Of 
course,  he  has  made  a  place  for  Bertie,  which  is  quite  right," 
she  pursued  silkily,  "but  Bertie  won't  be  worth  that  very  gener- 
ous salary  for  some  time — and  Harry's  place  is  in  the  firm,  and  I 
think  Harry — with  his  knowledge  of  human  nature,  would  be 
quite  invaluable  to  the  house!" 

"We'll  see!"  was  all  Mrs.  Brewer  could  say,  trembling  ner- 
vously. She  managed  a  shaken  smile,  but  she  was  almost  sick 
with  shock.  Lucy  had  never  taken  this  tone  with  her  before; 
the  affairs  of  the  firm  had  always  been  sacredly  vested  in  Ste- 
phen. She  realized  that  Lucy,  always  shameless  in  self-interest, 
had  already  tacitly  engaged  the  sympathies  of  Mrs.  Bob,  whose 
own  interests  were  naturally  identical.  She  was  wishing  franti- 
cally that  Stephen  was  here,  when  Lucy  spoke  again. 

"What  is  Harry's  business  now?  Why,  we  ran  away  to  Eng- 
land when  we  were  first  married,  and  he  had  a  position  with 
an  insurance  company  there.  Afterward  the  same  company 
sent  him  here  with  the  agency,  but  they  were  English,  of  course, 
and  we  are — well,  it  was  just  a  case  of  our  utter  provincialism!" 
said  Lucy,  warmly.  "So  that  didn't  do.  So  then  Harry  went 
in  with  the  Atlas  rubber  people — hot  water  bags  and  gossamers, 
you  know — and  he's  been  there  twelve  years.  But  of  course 
the  desire  of  his  heart  is  to  be  with  his  father — he's  devoted  to 
his  father " 

"He  wasn't  so  devoted,  twelve  years  ago,  but  what  he " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  43 

May  was  beginning,  tremblingly,  when  Lucy,  whose  eyes  had 
wandered,  rose  with  a  sudden  smile. 

"Why,  bless  his  heart,  there  he  is!"  she  said,  in  her  richest 
voice,  fluttering  maternally  toward  old  Reuben,  who  was  coming 
steadily,  if  shakily,  from  the  house.  May  rose,  and  somewhat 
resentfully  helped  the  capable  Lucy  to  lower  him  into  his 
seat. 

"You  had  your  hot  milk,  Pa?"  the  daughter  asked,  con- 
scientiously. 

The  old  man  was  smiling  fatuously  at  Lucy. 

"Where's  your  pretty  girl,  Lucy?"  he  cackled,  the  tremulous 
face  muscles  steadied  by  the  upward  sweep  of  the  determined 
old  jaw. 

"Which  one?"  Lucy  laughed.  "Both  my  girls  are  pretty! 
But  I'm  afraid  you  mean  Nelly,  you  bad  old  man!" 

"Nelly — that's  the  one.  I'm  in  love  with  little  Nelly!"  said 
Reuben  Crabtree,  in  great  spirits. 

"Oh,  then,  you're  like  all  the  other  boys!"  Lucy  scolded 
him,  beating  playfully  upon  the  wrinkled,  bloodless  old  hand. 
And  a  moment  later  she  added:  "Here  they  all  come!" 

They  were  streaming  back,  hot  and  tumbled  and  laughing, 
from  the  tennis-court  and  the  croquet-ground.  First  came 
Miss  Fanny,  with  Lou  and  Tina  and  Vick  hanging  upon  her 
arms,  and  little  Alice  Crabtree  also  in  the  group,  watching  their 
animated  faces  in  quiet  pleasure.  Then  came  three  young  men, 
Bertie,  Davy  Dudley,  a  gawky,  loosely  built  big,  shabbily 
dressed  youth  who  had  come  to  San  Rafael  with  Lucy  and  her 
girls  that  morning,  and  lastly,  a  certain  Rudy  Sessions,  intro- 
duced to  his  family  by  Bertie  as  an  acquaintance  of  the  ferry- 
boat. 

All  three  of  these  were  crowding  about  Nelly  and  fighting  for 
place  beside  her,  laughing  loudly  and  boyishly  at  her  least  little 
saucy  remark,  and  leaning  eagerly  over  her  fairylike  little  face. 
She  gave  them  pouts,  little  pushes,  she  widened  her  blue  eyes  and 
pursed  her  delicious  mouth,  she  shook  her  flyaway  curls.  Fanny 
and  the  Brewer  girls  were  rather  ostentatiously  unaware  of  her 
and  her  companions,  but  Lucy  smiled  knowingly:  wherever 
young  men  and  Nelly  were,  it  was  always  like  this. 

Alice,  Lucy  considered  was  the  family  beauty — a  tall,  ma- 
donna-faced little  girl,  with  wide-open,  fine,  conscientious  blue 
eyes,  and  dark  hair,  flat  straight  shoulders  like  a  boy's,  and  a 


44  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

wide  beautifully  shaped  mouth  that  showed  big  white  teeth 
when  she  smiled.  But  Nelly  possessed  an  undeniable  and  ir- 
resistible charm.  She  was  six  years  older  than  her  half-sister, 
slender,  beautifully  made,  with  a  white  dimpled  hand  and  a 
heart-shaped  face  that  was  as  wistful  as  an  upturned  flower. 
There  was  something  flower-like  about  Nelly;  in  spite  of  her 
perfectly  healthy  rosiness  and  her  joyous  laugh,  her  skin  was  too 
fair,  her  lips  too  red,  and  her  flyaway  pale  gold  hair  too  soft  and 
bright  for  any  human  standard. 

She  was  that  perfectly  normal  product  of  the  day,  a  born 
flirt,  as  innocent  as  a  butterfly,  and  as  ignorant  of  life  at  twenty- 
two  years  as  she  had  been  at  twenty-two  minutes.  Nelly's 
daughters  might  never  do  what  their  mother  did,  without  the 
honest  consciousness  of  wrong-doing.  So  much  they  would 
pay  for  a  more  independent  and  more  enlightened  heritage. 

But  Nelly  could  flirt  with  a  perfectly  free  conscience.  Her 
entire  education,  along  certain  much-discussed  lines,  was  that 
she  must  marry  some  day,  and  meanwhile  might  have  as  many 
beaux  and  good  times  as  she  could.  So  she  dimpled,  and  rolled 
her  blue  eyes,  placed  artless  touches  of  her  soft  little  hand  upon 
susceptible  masculine  wrists  just  when  they  would  do  the  most 
mischief,  made  engagements  only  to  break  them,  wore  one  man's 
flowers  while  she  was  out  with  another  man,  nibbled  this  one's 
candy  and  clipped  the  stems  of  that  one's  roses,  divided  her 
dances,  sat  out  decorous  measures  like  minuets  and  reels,  and 
wore  out  more  slippers  than  she  did  shoes,  in  the  course  of  a 
year. 

The  Brewer  girls,  who  called  her  cousin,  were  secretly  en- 
vious and  admiring  of  this  brilliant  creature.  But  outwardly, 
when  they  discussed  her,  they  took  their  key  from  their  mother 
and  Aunt  Fanny,  who  said  regretfully  that  it  was  not  quite  nice. 
Aunt  Fanny  always  admitted,  in  this  connection,  that  she  her- 
self had  done  a  good  deal  too  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  years  ago, 
although  in  her  younger  days  the  men  were  somehow  different, 
much  more  in  earnest,  and  much  more  respectful.  It  was 
generally  conceded  that  Aunt  Fanny  had  been  a  "terror"  with 
the  men,  and  now  and  then,  late  at  night,  when  her  sister  had 
gone  to  bed  and  she  was  alone  with  her  older  nieces,  Fanny 
would  confess  delightful  indiscretions — the  time  she  had  told 
Mr.  Runyon — who  was  married  now,  and  a  Judge  at  that! — 
that  she  had  a  headache  and  must  retire,  and  then  had  gone  to 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     45 

ride  with  Mr.  Treat,  who  was  also  married,  years  ago,  and  had 
named  his  fourth  daughter  Frances.  And  the  time  that  the 
French  boy  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage  after  knowing  her 

exactly  one  day !     And  had  taken  out  a  pistol,  too,  and 

threatened  to  kill  himself  if  she  didn't  accept  him !     But 

when  pressed,  Fanny  always  became  facetious.     Men !  she 

would  say.  Wouldn't  have  any  one  of  'em  bothering  about! 
As  for  children,  well,  her  young  ones  would  have  to  have  tin 
ears  and  copper  bottoms,  declared  this  daring  and  delightful 
aunt.  The  girls  always  laughed  wickedly  at  this,  and  May,  if 
she  were  present,  would  say,  "My  land,  Fanny!" 

Esme  and  Victoria,  hugging  their  knees,  getting  chillier  and 
chillier  in  their  nightgowns,  would  listen  in  rapt  excitement. 
Oh,  to  have  men  languishing  at  their  feet!  To  have  "offers"! 
Aunt  Fanny  had  had  her  first  at  fifteen,  when  she  came  up  from 
the  San  Jose  Convent  a  very  accomplished  and  desirable  young 
lady  indeed,  in  that  womanless  west.  She  played  the  piano, 
danced  like  a  fairy,  and  had  the  prettiest  dresses  in  the  city, 
then. 

But  that  was  long  ago.  Aunt  Fanny  was  religious  now,  and 
kept  house  for  her  old  father,  and  had  inherited  Aunt  Jenny's 
money.  The  dancing  was  over,  and  the  pretty  gowns  were  dark 
and  decorous.  And  the  bright  young  beauty  was  a  lean,  talka- 
tive woman  nearing  fifty,  whose  complexion  was  light  brown 
under  darker  brown  freckles,  and  whose  two  prominent  upper 
front  teeth  had  worn  themselves  two  faint  grooves  in  her  full 
under  lip. 

Between  herself  and  her  sister  there  was  real  affection,  tem- 
pered still  sometimes  by  a  little  natural  jealousy.  May  had  the 
lovely  family  and  the  devoted  husband,  and  May  lived  in  the 
old  home,  although  not  without  constant  twinges  of  apprehen- 
sion lest  Pa  in  a  moment  of  weakness  leave  it  to  Fanny.  But 
Fanny  had  freedom,  and  had  Aunt  Jenny's  money,  and  she  also 
had  what  might  have  been  described  as  the  bodily  possession  of 
Pa.  Pa  adored  Fanny,  and  just  how  influential  she  was  with  him 
both  May  and  Stephen  sometimes  wondered.  While  they  had  all 
lived  together  here  in  San  Rafael  there  had  been  nothing  to  fear. 
But  suddenly  Pa  and  Fanny  had  announced  that  they  thought 
they  would  like  to  try  the  city,  and  furniture  long  in  storage 
had  been  unpacked,  and  new  furniture  had  been  added,  and 
now  they  had  a  little  house  in  California  Street,  which  was 


46     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

beginning  to  be  very  fashionable,  just  above  Van  Mess  Avenue. 
There  was  an  extra  bedroom  there,  to  be  sure,  for  any  one  of  the 
"darling  girlies' '  who  might  want  to  spend  a  night  away  from 
home,  and  there  were  many  Sundays,  like  to-night,  when  Pa 
and  Fanny  came  back  to  the  old  home  to  stay;  but  still,  May  felt 
that  she  had  somehow  lost  touch  with  her  father,  and  as  he  was 
old,  and  as  he  was  often  unreasonable,  she  regretted  that  his  last 
years  should  be  influenced  against  what  might  be  "his  better 
judgment." 

May  was  rasped  now,  as  Fanny  had  been,  by  little  Nelly 
Crabtree's — Nelly  used  her  step-father's  name — cool  appro- 
priation of  all  the  young  men.  Bertie,  too!  May  had  no  in- 
tention of  encouraging  any  preposterous  hopes  on  Nelly's  part 
in  that  direction.  What  Davy  Dudley  did  was  a  matter  of 
supreme  unimportance  to  May;  he  was  a  neighbour  of  Lucy's  in 
the  city,  a  country  nobody,  penniless  and  inconsiderable.  But 
this  new  young  man,  this  Rudy  Sessions,  who  had  turned  up 
from  nowhere  about  an  hour  ago,  was  worthy  of  consideration. 
All  young  men  were  potential  husbands  now,  for  Esme,  Vicky, 
Tina,  and  Lou,  and  this  youth  had  an  unusual  appearance  and 
a  good  name.     May  looked  keenly  at  Rudy  Sessions. 

She  saw  a  slender,  nicely  built  boy  of  perhaps  twenty-four, 
so  fair  that  his  face  would  have  looked  almost  babyish,  but  for 
the  gold-rimmed  glasses  that  were  attached  to  a  gold  chain  that 
was  looped  over  his  ear.  His  voice  had  a  faintly  feminine 
strain,  but  he  was  quick  and  definite  in  speech,  and  he  spoke  un- 
usually well.  His  fair  hair  was  smoothly  brushed  into  a  pom- 
padour, his  light  summer  suit  was  buttoned  up  to  within  a  few 
inches  of  the  chin,  where  the  wide  square  folds  of  an  ascot  tie 
showed.  He  wore  a  straw  hat  with  a  blue  band  and  elastic. 
There  was  something  that  faintly  suggested  boredom,  superior- 
ity, sophistication,  in  young  Mr.  Sessions,  and  May  felt  quite 
a  flutter  of  gratification  when  Victoria's  nonsense  suddenly 
made  him  laugh  quite  heartily. 

"You  are  staying  in  our  lovely  San  Rafael,  Mr.  Sessions?" 
asked  May.     She  liked  his  quick,  respectful,  sobered  look. 

"A  college  friend  and  I  have  a  little  camp  at  San  Anselmo, 
Mrs.  Brewer,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  you've  been  to  college?"  May  said  eagerly. 

"Well,  I  didn't  finish,"  he  admitted  readily.  "Bert  and  I 
have  exchanged  momentous  opinions  on  the  boat  several  times, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  47 

and  he  asked  me  to  drop  in  and  see  his  family  sometime,"  he 
added,  pleasantly. 

"Well,  now  that  you've  found  the  way,  you  must  come 
again,"  May  said,  delighted. 

"Are  you  working — that  is,  do  you  do  something — you  know 
what  I  mean,  Mr.  Rudy?"  Victoria  fumbled. 

Everyone  laughed  at  the  slip,  and  Vicky  turned  crimson, 
but  the  ready  Rudy  said,  in  his  friendly  way: 

"That's  all  right — I  wish  you  would  call  me  Rudy.  Yes," 
he  answered,  "I'm  temporarily  working  with  Furman,  the  piano 
house.  My  folks  wanted  me  to  finish  college,  but  I  only  had 
a  year.  My  mother  says  I'm  a  rolling  stone.  She  and  my 
sister  live  in  Portland." 

"And  your  father,  too?"  May  asked. 

"My  father  died  twenty  years  ago,"  Rudy  said,  gravely. 
"  But  Fve  an  uncle,  my  mother's  brother,  who's  got  a  ranch  in 
Contra  Costa  County;  he  wants  me  to  farm  with  him.  And  I 
may — someday."  May  murmured  sympathetically;  she  was 
immensely  drawn  to  this  romantic  boy,  and  felt  quite  motherly 
toward  him.  Everything  he  had  told  her  was  right  and  fitting 
for  a  prospective  son-in-law,  and  she  mentally  gave  him  to 
Esme,  even  as  they  sat  there  dreaming  on  the  fallen  dry  scimitars 
of  the  eucalyptus. 

But  Vicky  had  already  appropriated  him  to  herself:  she  sat  in 
a  pleasant  dream,  his  friendly  "I  wish  you  would  call  me  Rudy," 
still  sounding  in  her  ears. 

It  was  still  broad  daylight  at  six  o'clock  of  the  long  Sunday 
afternoon  when  Stephen  Brewer  came  very  quietly  in  at  the 
side  door  of  the  house.  He  and  Robert  had  had  a  stroll,  up 
toward  the  wooded  hills  that  so  loosely  enfolded  the  sprawling 
country  town,  and  Robert  had  seemed  amenable  to  advice, 
which  was,  in  this  case,  that  he,  Robert,  would  undoubtedly 
do  very  well  with  a  cotton  agency  in  the  city.  Now  Robert 
had  turned  toward  the  invisible,  but  audible,  group  on  the 
lawn,  and  Stephen  was  going  upstairs  for  what  was  his  usual 
custom:  the  kindly  awakening  of  his  old  father-in-law,  and  a 
genial  talk  with  the  old  man,  while  they  both  brushed  and 
straightened  themselves  for  supper. 

Carra,  the  impassive  old  negress,  met  him  in  the  upper 
hall. 


48  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Mist*  Steve,"  said  she,  clutching  his  arm.  "Raik'n  yo' 
pa  ill!" 

"Mr.  Crabtree  ill!"  Stephen  repeated,  in  a  sharp  whisper. 
"What  makes  you  say  so!" 

"I  ben  knockin'  and  knockin'  at  he  do',"  Carra  said,  in  the 
same  unearthly  undertone,  "and  he  am'  answer.  En  I  open 
d'  do,  and  he  all  hunch'  up  on  he  baid,  and  he  am'  move  nor 
cry 

"My  God !"  Stephen  said,  horrified.     And  quickly  and 

quietly  they  moved  through  the  twilighted  dimness  of  the 
bare  upper  hall  to  the  old  man's  room.  "The  poor  old  fellow 
has  dropped  off — I  knew  it  would  come  so!"  Stephen  thought. 
And  he  thought  that  Robert  had  come  too  late,  all  the  threads 
were  in  his  own  hands  now.  He  had  been  anticipating  this 
moment  for  years. 

The  hall  was  dim,  but  streaming  sunset  light  shone  redly  into 
the  bedroom,  as  Stephen,  followed  by  the  whimpering  old  col- 
oured woman,  came  swiftly  in.  He  moved,  with  a  quick  ex- 
clamation, to  the  bed.  But  it  was  only  the  blue  silk  comforter 
and  the  old  man's  discarded  dressing-gown,  that  had  united  to 
form  the  semblance  of  a  twisted  body,  and  Stephen  started  back 
with  a  great  exclamation  of  reaction  from  shock. 

"He  simply  waked  early,  Carra,  and  has  gone  downstairs!" 
he  said.  And  with  a  hearty  laugh  at  their  scare  he  left  her  and 
went  downstairs  in  his  turn. 

But  so  deep  had  been  the  sudden  conviction  of  change,  that 
he  found  himself  recalling  the  abandoned  phrases  that  had  half 
formed  themselves  in  his  mind :  the  little  dream  of  dignity  and 
tenderness  with  which  he  would  have  taken  his  place  as  the  head 
of  the  family,  quieting  May,  reassuring  Fanny,  directing  his 
children.     And  to-morrow — at  the  office ! 

"Well,  it  was  merely  a  scare!"  Stephen  said,  shaking  himself. 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  old  man,  quite  as  hale  and  hearty 
as  he  had  been  for  ten  years,  enjoying  the  homage  of  the  big 
group.  Stephen  smiled  at  him,  took  a  daughter's  chair,  and 
slipped  a  fatherly  arm  about  the  young  waist.  It  was  Tina 
who  had  given  him  her  place,  lazily  hoping,  as  she  kissed  his 
forehead  and  smoothed  his  hair,  that  her  mother  would  not 
shortly  summon  her  to  service  for  supper. 

Victoria  was  on  her  mother's  chair,  and  they  were  murmuring. 

"Plenty  of  bread  and  butter,  dear,  and  fruit,  and  the  cream 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  49 

cheese,  and  the  cake — all  the  cake  you  can  find.  And  put  on 
piles  of  plates,  and  make  chocolate — use  yesterday's  milk. 
There  may  be  corned  beef  and  there  may  be  sardines.  Just  use 
your  own  judgment." 

Victoria  rose  with  a  spring;  she  was  healthily  hungry,  but 
Esme  was  headachy  from  chocolates,  and  Tina  had  had  thrilling 
tea — weak  tea  and  stale  biscuits,  with  the  rector.  She  and  Rose 
Pendergast  had  worked  so  late  with  the  children  at  the  Guild 
Room,  that  the  young  man  had  somewhat  timidly  suggested  it, 
and  with  much  merry  investigation  of  his  bachelor  cupboard, 
Tina  and  the  grim  and  angular  and  deeply  devout  Miss  Pender- 
gast had  managed  it.  So  neither  sister  had  any  enthusiasm  for 
supper,  and  Victoria,  abandoning  the  possibility  of  Alice  and 
Louisianna,  who  had  disappeared,  went  kitchenward  alone. 

The  kitchen  in  the  old  Crabtree  house  had  not  been  built 
with  the  convenience  of  its  occupants  in  mind.  It  was  some 
twenty  by  thirty  feet,  with  a  quite  considerable  walk  between 
the  large,  well-equipped  sink,  and  the  enormous  brick-based 
range.  To  the  china  pantry  was  another  long  distance,  and  the 
table,  under  two  splendid  windows,  was  some  twelve  feet  away 
from  both  range  and  sink.  It  had  been  much  admired,  some 
years  ago,  when  the  big,  pretentious  house  was  new,  and  women 
visitors,  peeping  in  at  its  spacious  order,  had  exclaimed  in  envy. 
Mrs.  Brewer  could  always  say  honestly  that  it  was  a  lovely 
kitchen,  and  Victoria  loved  it.  What  Addie  and  Lotta,  who  had 
it  to  sweep  and  scrub  and  walk  over,  thought  of  it,  nobody  ever 
thought  or  cared  to  ask. 

Spotlessly  clean,  in  the  late  Sunday  afternoon,  it  smelled 
pleasantly  of  stored  foods,  apples  and  bread,  and  of  scrubbed 
wood,  and  of  sunshine  captured  and  shut  in.  The  range  winked 
one  red  eye,  and  the  shining  zinc  of  the  sink  was  spattered  by 
just  a  few  drops  of  water  falling  into  a  handleless  cup.  Lotta 
had  washed  and  piled  and  rinsed  and  scrubbed  vigorously, 
and  had  combed  her  own  hair  at  this  sink,  and  then  had  dressed, 
and,  passing  through  the  kitchen  on  her  way  to  the  cemetery, 
had  stopped  for  a  last  cupful  of  cold  water.  This  cup  was  the 
only  article  out  of  place  when  Victoria  bore  down  upon  the  scene 
and  began  to  snap  open  pot-closets  and  bring  forth  half-con- 
sumed foods. 

"Heavens — how  you  frightened  me!"  she  said,  as  a  young 
man  stepped  quietly  behind  her.     It  was  Davy  Dudley,  Nelly's 


5o     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

admitted  admirer  for  some  months  now,  a  tall,  silent  boy,  with  a 
bashful  manner. 

"I  think  I  shall  have  to  get  the  seven-ten,"  said  this  young 
man  seriously,  to  Victoria,  "I  wonder  if  you  will  say  good-bye  to 
them  all — and  to  Mrs.  Harry  Crabtree — and  your  mother — I 
should  be  so  much  obliged]" 

"Oh,  but  why  are  you  going?"  Victoria  said,  eagerly.  Here 
was  a  delightful  and  mysterious  occurrence!  "How  did  you 
happen  to  come  through  this  way?" 

"I  was — I  was  reading  in  the  dining-room,"  he  said,  embar- 
rassed, "and  I  heard  voices — Alice  and  your  younger  sister — 
and  I  thought  I'd  just — slip  away!" 

"Oh,  but  now  listen,"  Victoria  protested  cheerfully,  "we're 
just  going  to  have  supper!  And  I  know  Nelly  will  expect  you 
to  go  back  with  them " 

"No,  that's  exactly  what  she  won't,"  he  said  nervously; 
"she — she  says  she  may  stay  all  night,  and  that — that  Mr. 
Sessions  wants  her  to  go  riding  with  him  to-morrow  morning!" 

"Rudy  Sessions!"  Victoria  exclaimed.  "Why,  she  hardly 
knows  him!" 

"  That's  what  I  thought,"  Davy  Dudley  said,  not  looking  at 
her. 

"In  the  first  place,"  Victoria  began,  "in  the  first  place,  we 
none  of  us  know  him! — Thank  you,"  she  interrupted  herself  to 
say,  as  Davy  Dudley  quite  simply  helped  her  to  lift  out  several 
great  crusty  home-made  loaves  from  the  big  tin.  "In  the 
second  place,"  pursued  Victoria,  conscious  that  she  was  romanti- 
cally placed,  and  revelling  in  romance,  "he'll  have  to  hire  horses 
from  the  livery  stable — and  they're  awful!  And  then  I  don't 
see  how  she  can  stay  all  night,  for  I  have  to  double  up  with 
Esme,  anyway,  when  Grandpa's  here. — Two  peaches,"  she  said, 
in  reference  to  preserves,  "and  some  of  that  marked  'Currant 
Pickle'  for  the  meat.  Thank  you,  Davy."  She  had  never 
called  him  by  his  name  before. 

"She  isn't  the  sort  of  woman  that  would  ever  care  for  a  fellow 
like  me,"  said  Davy,  casually,  cutting  ham  sombrely,  and  un- 
conscious of  Victoria's  little  overture. 

"I  think  she  is!"  Victoria  assured  him,  thrilling.  This  was 
the  next  best  thing  to  having  a  beau  of  one's  own,  and  as  she  had 
never  had  that,  it  was  a  great  occasion  just  as  it  stood.  "  Why. 
why  don't  you  tell  her  how  you  feel,  Davy?"  she  said. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  51 

"I  have  told  her,  "said  Davy  desperately.    "I  told  her  to-day! " 

The  girl  looked  at  his  honest,  unhappy  young  face,  and  her 
whole  being  was  flooded  with  joy. 

"Davy,  I'm  so  sorry!"  she  breathed,  over  the  spicy  richness 
of  pickled  currants  and  the  sliced  fresh  cheese. 

Nelly,  the  recipient  of  these  unbelievable  attentions  and 
honours,  was  only  a  year  older  than  Victoria,  to  be  sure,  but 
Victoria  always  felt  much  the  younger.  This  was  perhaps  be- 
cause she  was  quite  unconsciously  affected  by  the  fact  that  she, 
Victoria,  was  a  rich  man's  protected  daughter,  her  education 
was  not  complete,  she  was  still  watched  and  guided  like  a  child. 
Whereas  Nelly,  whose  circumstances  were  humble,  had  gone 
boldly  into  training,  at  seventeen,  and  was  now  a  kindergarten 
teacher,  and  was  accustomed  to  holding  her  own  in  the  world. 
Victoria  had  simple  faith  that  in  a  few  years  her  own  popularity 
would  equal  Nelly's;  meanwhile  the  somewhat  precocious  career 
of  Nelly  was  a  thing  to  envy  and  admire. 

Yet  it  was  a  very  youthful  Nelly  who  presently  drifted  into 
the  kitchen,  having  parted  affectionately  from  the  obnoxious 
Sessions,  and  sent  the  equally  devoted  Bertie  upstairs  to  wash 
and  change.  She  joined  Davy,  at  the  side-door  of  the  passage, 
and  they  pulled  honeysuckle  buds,  and  sucked  them,  while  they 
murmured.  Victoria,  who  had  half  a  dozen  appreciative  as- 
sistants now — Louisianna  and  Alice,  Aunt  Lucy  and  Aunt  Fanny 
— could  hear  some  of  their  words  as  she  came  and  went.  "Well, 
you  were  a  goose  to  think  so,  Davy.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  I 
am  a  goose.  .  .  .  You  certainly  are!  .  .  .  Well,  per- 
haps I  certainly  am!  .  .  .  No,  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  but 
now  I  won't!     .     .     .     Because  I  won't.     .     .     ." 

Not  eloquent,  yet  with  Nelly's  bright,  flyaway  golden  head 
close  to  the  infatuated  boy's  face,  and  Nelly's  wholly  intoxi- 
cating penitence  all  for  him,  perhaps  Davy  Dudley  found  it 
sufficient.  When  they  strolled  to  the  gate,  unnoticed,  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  try  it  once  again,  wouldn't  she — 
couldn't  she — let  him  hope? 

No,  she  definitely  wouldn't,  and  he  was  a  foolish  boy.  But 
she  would  sit  next  to  him  at  the  crowded  happy  supper  table, 
and  later,  on  the  boat  going  home,  he  and  she  managed  to  slip 
away  from  her  mother  and  Alice,  and  the  Robert  Crabtree's, 
and  find  seats  downstairs  on  the  narrowest  little  deck  in  the 
world,  close  above  the  tumbling  dark  water.     And  there,  upon 


52     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Davy's  complaining  that  Bertie  had  accompanied  them  half 
way,  and  she  had  talked  to  no  one  else,  Nelly  let  him  kiss  her, 
more  than  once,  under  the  twinkling  summer  stars. 

Grandpa  Crabtree  and  Aunt  Fanny  stayed  at  the  big  San 
Rafael  homestead  overnight,  and  in  the  evening  after  the  guests 
had  gone,  as  always,  rushing  for  the  train,  the  family  sat  on 
about  the  dinner  table,  and  went  on  with  microscopic  helpings 
of  jam  and  crackers  and  cheese  and  more  cocoa,  until  almost 
nine  o'clock.  Bertie's  perfectly  unprecedented  action,  in  ac- 
companying Nelly  as  far  as  Saucelito  on  the  homeward  trip, 
seriously  upset  his  mother.  Nelly  was  no  blood-kin,  after  all, 
and  she  was  not  inclined  to  welcome  a  future  daughter-in-law 
in  Nelly! 

"How  serious  is  Nelly's  affair  with  David?"  Fanny  asked. 
Victoria  looked  important. 

"It's  very  serious — for  him!"  she  said.  "Nelly  doesn't  like 
him.     She's  much  crazier  about  Bertie." 

"Now,  how  can  you  say  that,  dear?"  her  mother  asked  ner- 
vously. Victoria  told  all  she  knew,  and  much  more.  Quoted, 
Davy's  confidences  assumed  great  importance. 

"But,  Mama,  wouldn't  you  like  to  have  her  marry  Bertie?" 
she  ended  simply.     Her  mother  flushed  with  annoyance. 

"Ridiculous!"  she  said. 

"Leetle  Nelly's  mighty  pooty,"  said  the  old  man,  suddenly. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  son-in-law.  "Looks  to  me  like  Robbit 
is  beginning  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  old  shop?"  he  ventured. 

Stephen  Brewer,  now  smoking  a  big  cigar,  and  very  genial 
and  comfortable  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  smiled  and  nodded 
thoughtfully.  He  had  not  been  attending  Directors'  Meetings 
with  his  father-in-law  for  twenty  years  without  learning  some 
caution. 

"Shouldn't  wonder!"  he  answered,  noncommittally. 

"Robert  has  shown  no  particular  interest  in  all  these  bad 

years,"  May  said,  lightly.     "Didn't "  She  saw  when   she 

glanced  at  her  husband  that  she  was  making  a  mistake,  but  she 
couldn't  help  it,  and  went  on.  "Didn't  Robert  sell  his  stock 
years  ago,  when  he  wanted  cash,  and  leave  you  and  Pa  to 
carry  the  whole  responsibility?" 

"I  thought  he  did!"  Fanny  assisted  her,  nervously  beating 
her  own  nose. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  53 

"Well,  we've  got  to  pay  salaries  to  someone !"  cackled  the 
old  president  and  owner  of  the  business.  The  old  man  had  been 
delighted  to  see  his  son,  and  was  quite  innocently  eager  to  keep 
him.  But  more  than  that,  he  was  amazingly  shrewd  at  seventy- 
five,  and  he  was  not  quite  pleased  with  the  fashion  in  which 
young  Bertie  had  been  insinuated  into  a  comfortable  position 
with  the  firm.  It  had  been  managed  very  quickly  and  quietly. 
Stephen's  ofFhand,  "I  suppose  we  must  take  the  boy  in?" 
had  been  the  only  question  addressed  to  him  on  the  subject,  and 
the  point  of  Bertie's  salary  had  been  passed  through  at  the 
directors'  meeting,  in  a  list  of  more  important  details.  Per- 
haps old  Reuben  had  promised  Bertie  a  start  in  the  family 
business,  but  he  did  not  remember  doing  so  even  once,  much 
less  the  "hundred  times"  of  which  his  daughter  spoke.  And  if 
the  Brewers  could  do  a  little  manipulating  for  their  son,  then  so 
might  Reuben  do  a  little  for  his;  it  was,  after  all,  all  in  the  family. 

"I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't  try  Rossi's  work,"  the  old, man 
persisted,  and  May  almost  audibly  gasped.  But  Stephen  only 
went  on  smoking  placidly,  and  smiled  at  his  father-in-law. 

"I  doubt  if  he  could  do  Rossi's  work,  but  if  you  want  to  make 
work  for  Bob,  we'll  manage  it!"  said  Stephen. 

"I  could  step  in  to-morrow "  old  Reuben  Brewer  Crab- 
tree  said.  But  for  various  reasons  Stephen  did  not  favour  this, 
and  he  said  hastily  that  he  would  talk  to  Yeasley  and  Woolcock, 
and  they  would  "see." 

The  half-hour  after  nine  struck,  and  such  members  of  the 
family  as  were  not  heavy  with  food  and  idleness,  bestirred  them- 
selves to  clear  the  table.  The  dining  room  was  a  large,  bay- 
windowed  room,  papered  in  reddish  brown,  and  with  a  wainscot 
and  woodwork  painted  yellowish  brown,  with  a  burl  carefully 
brushed  in  in  clear  yellow.  On  the  kitchen  side  of  the  room,  be- 
side the  large  heavy  kitchen  door,  was  a  shelf,  about  waist-high, 
and  behind  it  a  sliding  panel.  Through  this  panel  hot  dishes 
were  passed  from  the  kitchen,  from  Lotta  to  Addie;  now  the 
dishes  and  plates  were  scrambled  through  again  to  the  two 
maids,  who  had  returned  from  church  and  were  straightening 
the  kitchen  between  raw  heart-rending  yawns. 

Bertie  came  in  late,  and  Victoria  goodnaturedly  brought  him  a 
second  supper;his  mother  sat  opposite  him  and  watched  him  eat. 
He  said  he  "had  to  see  a  fellow  in  Saucelito  anyway,  about  a 
boat,"  but  both  mother  and  sister  knew  it  was  not  true.     Victoria 


54     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

to  annoy  Bertie  said  that  she  thought  Rudy  Sessions  was  crazy 
about  Nelly,  but  maybe  Nelly  liked  Dayy  Dudley  best. 

"She  likes  Davy  merely  because  he  is  a  neighbour — doesn't 
his  mother  keep  boarders,  next  to  Aunt  Lucy's  house?"  Mrs. 
Brewer  said,  her  heart  yearning  over  her  son. 

"His  aunt,"  Victoria  said,  yawning,  and  laying  her  head  on 
the  table. 

"If  you  had  better  manners,  and  acted  as  nicely  as  Nelly 
does,  maybe  some  day  you'd  have  a  man  after  you!"  Bertie 
said,  goaded  quite  out  of  his  usual  sweetness  by  the  awful 
thought  that  Davy  and  Nelly  were  still  together. 

"I  don't  see  any  men  about  here  anyway,"  Victoria  said. 
"I  only  see  a  few  kids  that  get  sea-sick  on  a  perfectly  calm  sea — 
when  even  the  girls  on  the  yacht  don't  get  ill — and  have  to  lie 
down " 

"Victoria!"  said  her  mother.  The  girl  laughed  shame- 
facedly and  took  her  departure  with  a  great  assumption  of  an 
airy  manner,  humming  as  she  went.  She  was  really  fond  of 
Bertie;  she  was  really  rather  generous  to  her  sisters  and  brother; 
but  the  thought  of  that  preposterous  salary,  that  dizzying  finan- 
cial independence  that  would  soon  be  Bertie's,  had  been  biting 
into  her  like  an  acid  all  day.  She  was  almost  as  old  as  Bertie. 
If  they  would  only  take  her  own  ambitions  seriously — only  help 
her  to  her  own  work! 

In  the  hall  she  ran  into  Tina  and  her  Aunt  Fanny,  who  linked 
affectionate  arms  about  her. 

"Glad  to  have  old  Fanny  back  for  a  night?"  asked  the  older 
woman  archly.  "Come  out  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air — it  is 
delicious  out!" 

They  stepped  into  the  quiet  dooryard.  But  Victoria  de- 
clined. Two  was  company  in  this  case.  Aunt  Fanny  liked  con- 
fidences, liked  little  tete-a-tetes.  Victoria  thought  she  could 
find  her  father,  smoking  beside  her  grandfather  in  the  soft  gloom 
of  the  porch,  and  coax  him  to  let  her  consider  the  nursing  pos- 
sibility. 

Miss  Fanny  and  Tina  blundered  with  some  quiet  laughter  in 
the  warm  darkness  between  the  berry  bushes,  down  past  a  dry- 
ing green,  and  through  a  long  grape-arbour  that  was  beginning 
to  be  silvered  magically  by  the  rising  moon.  The  dry  yellow 
grass  under  their  feet  gave  up  a  sharp  pungent  scent  in  the  dew, 
and  all  the  dimly  outlined  bushes  and  trees  looked  softened  and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  55 

mysterious.  Two  or  three  hundred  feet  from  the  house  there 
was  the  railing  of  a  paddock,  and  the  two  women  could  see  the 
horses,  in  the  moonlight,  the  big  outline  of  the  hay  barn,  and  the 
rising  slopes  of  wood  and  field  that  led  into  the  surrounding  hills 

".  .  .  just  Miss  Pendergast  and  I.  And  so  we  had  tea, 
imagine!"  said  Tina,  leaning  on  the  upper  rail. 

"Now — Tina,  Tina!  Am  I  mistaken  or  isn't  that  rather — 
rather  something  new?"  Fanny  asked,  in  the  dark.  The 
younger  woman  laughed  a  little  consciously. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  anything,  Aunt  Fanny!  Truly.  Why,  you 
know  I  know  men,  we've  always  had  such  lots  of  'em  about — 
and  this  was  just  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world — truly." 

"I  suppose  he  has  the  Hardisty  girls  and  the  Munheimer 
girls  there,  all  the  time?"  Fanny  suggested  demurely. 

"Oh,  aren't  you  terrible,  Aunt  Fanny!"  And  Tina  gave  her 
a  little  push  in  the  dark.  ♦  "No,  he  said  he  hadn't  had  ladies 
there  since  his  sister  was  here,  but  please  don't  go  putting  any 
significance  on  that — you  bad  thing!" 

"Oh,  I  shan't  do  anything,"  Fanny  said  virtuously.  The 
rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost,  until  Tina  said,  "What  did  you 
say?"  Then  Fanny  repeated  innocently,  "I  said  that  I  would 
leave  the  rest  to  him!" 

Tina  answered  nothing  to  this,  except  an  ecstatic  little 
giggle   and    another   little   push.     But    presently   she   added: 

"I  liked  his  sister  so  much— Mrs.  Keating." 

"That's  good,  that'll  make  things  easier!"  said  the  irre- 
pressible Fanny.  Tina  turned  to  her  shining  eyes  suddenly 
serious. 

"You  truly  mustn't  make  so  much  of  it,  Aunt  Fanny;  you 
truly  mustn't!  It  was  just  that  we  were  late,  and  we  had  been 
working  hard." 

"And  Miss  Pendergast  has  such  pretty  golden  hair!"  Fanny 
suggested,  and  Tina  laughed  again,  a  little  guiltily. 

"We  had  to  fumble  and  fuss  about  dreadfully,  to  get  hold 
of  the  tea  things,  imagine"  she  confided,  "and  I  gave  him  a  good 
scolding  for  his  untidiness!  He  is  untidy,  but  personally  I 
think  he's  the  cleanest  man  I  ever  saw!  I  went  into  the  bath- 
room to  fill  the  kettle — and  you  ought  to  see  the  big  sponges 
and  towels! — of  course  I  didn't  really  look  about  much,  I 
knew  Mama  wouldn't  wish  me  to.  Miss  Pendergast  said  that 
I  mustn't  dare  scold  him,  but  Mr.  Yelland  sat  there  smoking 


56     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  smiling  and  saying  that  it  did  him  good,  it  reminded  him 
of  home." 

"Now,  look  here,  dear,  you  mustn't  play  with  him,"  Fanny 
said,  after  a  fragrant,  moon-flooded  silence.  Tina  gave  an 
exultant  laugh  and  caught  her  aunt  about  the  shoulders  for  a 
hug  and  a  kiss. 

"Not  just  the  least  tiny  bit,  Aunt  Fanny?"  she  laughed 
naughtily.     "Well,  I'll  promise  you  I'll  be  good!" 

"Begin  now,  then,"  gasped  Miss  Fanny,  straightening  hair 
and  collar  and  laughing  breathlessly.  "He  made  a  very  nice 
impression  on  me,"  she  added,  in  an  elder's  judicial  tone.  Tina 
was  glad  only  to  talk  of  him,  to  keep  the  subject  alive,  in  the 
enchanted  moonlight. 

"Mind  you,  Aunt  Fanny,  the  girls  laugh  at  him  because  he 
isn't — well,  he  isn't  the  sort  of  man  who  chatters  with  every 
lady  he  meets!"  she  said  eagerly.  Aunt  Fanny,  far  from  laugh- 
ing at  this,  approved  it  very  heartily,  and  was  led  to  remember 
other  young  men,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  who  had  been 
similarly  reserved.  They  hung  on  the  fence  of  the  corral,  and 
talked  on  and  on,  coming  blinking  into  the  house  at  ten  min- 
utes past  ten,  amazed  at  the  stufFy  heat  indoors  and  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour. 

Esme,  in  pleading  a  headache,  had  merely  been  seeking 
privacy.  All  yesterday  and  to-day  she  had  been  busy,  away 
from  the  prying  eyes  of  mother  and  sisters,  with  a  letter.  A 
dozen  times,  in  a  panic,  she  had  swept  it  into  her  table  drawer. 
Now  it  was  finished;  she  had  only  to  watch  for  an  opportunity 
to  mail  it  unobserved,  to-morrow.  The  letter  was  addressed  to 
her  chum,  Miss  Jenny  Pembroke,  in  San  Francisco,  and  covered 
thirty-seven  closely  written  pages.  The  eighth,  ninth,  and  tenth 
pages  were  typical  of  them  all,  and  read:  ".  .  .  because 
rather  than  have  him  think  that  I  could  be  guilty  of  even 
dreaming  of  that,  I  would  gladly  die.  What  I  said,  and  what 
your  brother  and  his  friend  must  have  heard,  although  I  never 
dreamed  that  they  were  listening,  was  that  I  felt  that  it  was 
hardly  my  place  to  explain  it,  because  in  the  first  place,  it  was 
Ada  who  made  that  most  fatal  and  unfortunate  remark,  which 
really  has  changed  my  life  for  me,  for  I  have  never  been  placed 
in  so  terribly  embarrassing  a  position  before,  and  of  course  I 
will  never  get  over  it.  I  will  never  speak  to  Ada  Lackey  again, 
not  if  she  was  to  implore  me,  but  that  is  really  not  what  I  meant 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     57 

to  write  about.  I  thought  if  you  could  just  casually  mention 
to  your  brother,  without  even  hinting  that  you  had  heard  from 
me.     .     .     ." 

Esme  had  written  and  rewritten  this  twenty  times — she  hoped 
it  was  right  now — she  had  been  thinking  about  it  all  day.  It  was 
simply  insufferable  to  her  to  have  Frank  Pembroke  and  that  nice- 
looking  friend  of  his  think,  for  one  instant,  that  she  could  say 
to  Jenny  that  she,  Esme  Crabtree,  didn't  see  anything  so 
frightful  about  Ada  Lackey's  losing  her  petticoat  at  the  Salis- 
ford  picnic,  "especially  as  she  was  engaged  to  be  married. "  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  Ada  who  had  said  that,  and  Esme  had  said, 
as  she  felt,  that  if  she  had  been  Ada  she  would  have  died. 
And — whether  the  two  young  men  had  really  heard  the  sub- 
ject discussed  or  not,  they  had  laughed  suddenly,  and  had  ex- 
cused themselves  from  the  breakfast  room  in  the  Pembroke 
house,  where  Jenny  and  Esme  had  been  breakfasting  and 
murmuring  on  the  morning  after  the  picnic — and  Esme  had 
hardly  had  a  happy  moment  since,  wondering  what  they 
thought  of  her.  They  might  have  been  laughing  at  something 
else,  of  course,  for  she  and  Jenny  had  been  at  the  far  end  of  the 
table,  and  Frank  and  this  Mr.  Moran  had  been  at  the  fire. 
But  Esme's  face  grew  scarlet  every  time  she  remembered  how 
they  had  glanced  her  way,  just  as  she  had  offered  Ada's  pre- 
posterous excuse  of  having  been  engaged  to  the  man,  and  how 
they  had  laughingly  retreated  to  the  hall,  and  thence  downtown. 
Yes,  they  must  have  heard.  She  went  upstairs,  and  placed  the 
letter  conspicuously  on  her  bureau,  where  she  could  not  fail 
to  see  it  in  the  morning,  and  already  the  phrases  of  another 
long  letter  began  to  shape  itself  in  her  head,  upon  the  same 
subject. 

"Of  course  they  didn't!"  she  said,  undressing.  But  getting 
into  bed  her  face  flamed  again,  and  she  said  aloud,  "I'll  bet 
they  did!" 

Silence  gradually  established  itself  in  the  old  Crabtree  house, 
and  the  lights  went  out  one  by  one.  Fanny  loitered  long  with 
her  older  nieces,  before  they  turned  out  the  gas;  Louisianna 
was  youthfully  and  beautifully  asleep.  Mrs.  Brewer  came  in, 
plain  and  stout  in  her  tucked  long-sleeved  nightgown,  with 
her  hair  in  a  pigtail,  and  worriedly  reminded  them  that  it  was 
eleven  o'clock.     She  secretly  felt  sadly  the  burden  of  life — 


58  CERTAIN  PEOPjlE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Papa's  worry  about  Robert,  coming  just  now,  did  seem  such 
a  shame,  and  Bertie's  being  so  unlike  himself,  when  gently 
questioned  about  Nelly,  had  filled  her  with  apprehension. 
Lucy  Crabtree  would  put  on  most  insufferable  airs  if  her  penni- 
less girl  captured  the  only  son  of  May  Brewer!  And  how  the 
glory  of  having  Bertie  taken  into  the  firm,  suffered  by  this 
cloud  of  having  Robert  and  his  real  or  imaginary  claims  in  the 
background! 

Altogether  it  had  been  a  long,  full,  hot  Sunday,  with  some 
pleasant  phases,  as  when  she  introduced  her  blooming  girls  to 
the  childless  Ella,  and  her  glowing  boy  rode  in  on  his  bicycle, 
as  when  the  obviously  less  prosperous  Lucy  and  her  rather 
shabbily  dressed  children  joined  in  the  happy  confusion  of  Sun- 
day supper  getting — but  then  it  had  had  its  unfortunate  side, 
too! 

On  the  whole,  the  latter  element  predominated,  and  she  lay 
^awake  for  awhile  in  her  big,  plain  room,  with  moonlight  wheel- 
ing slowly  over  the  worn  "body  Brussels"  carpet  that  was  so 
neatly  pieced  and  nailed  up  against  every  baseboard,  and  with 
Stephen  audibly  and  deeply  slumbering  beside  her.  They  had 
been  married  more  than  twenty-five  years  and  had  never  been 
one  night  apart. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  Harry  Crabtrees  lived  in  a  little  cottage  in  Shotwell 
Street,  near  Seventeenth,  which  was  almost  like  living 
in  a  suburb  in  those  days.  To  reach  their  neighbour- 
hood, they  took  a  Market  Street  car,  left  it  at  a  crossing  where 
a  bearded  old  man  had  for  many  years  called  faithfully  "Trans- 
fares  fur  the  Mission!"  and  moved  into  a  little  horse  car,  whose 
driver  would  turn  to  look  through  the  glass  door  behind  him  to 
see  if  his  passengers  were  safely  inside,  and  then  shut  the  plat- 
form door  with  a  rope  and  pulley.  The  passengers  might  not 
emerge  from  the  car  until  they  had  deposited  a  five-cent  piece 
in  a  bell  box,  but  if  they  chanced  not  to  have  correct  change, 
it  was  always  possible  to  pass  "two  bits"  or  "four  bits"  through 
a  flap  in  the  front  door  to  the  driver,  who  stopped  his  horse, 
and  groped  in  a  leather-lined  pocket  for  his  change.  Passen- 
gers, stumbling  in  and  out,  and  stumbling  to  the  door  for 
change,  made  the  interior  of  the  car  always  diverting  to  on- 
lookers, and  to-night  Davy  and  Alice  and  Nelly  and  their 
mother  were  interested  in  an  old  fisherman,  with  silvery  scales 
on  his  rough  coat,  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  and  a  curly  beard, 
"like  an  apostle,"  Alice  whispered,  watching  him  in  awe. 

Leaving  the  car,  the  Crabtrees — for  Nelly  had  been  a  mere 
baby  at  the  time  of  her  mother's  second  marriage,  and  always 
used  her  stepfather's  name — walked  two  blocks  south,  passed 
a  little  shop,  and  two  other  two-story  wooden  houses  with 
gardens,  before  coming  to  their  own  old-fashioned  cottage, 
which  stood  well  back  in  a  space  of  almost  vacant  lots.  There 
were  a  few  fruit  trees,  gnarled  old  survivors  of  Spanish  owner- 
ship. A  little  fence  of  wood,  once  painted  red,  but  now  with  the 
faded  colour  peeling  from  its  clumsy  wheels  and  angles,  ran 
across  the  front  of  the  garden,  but  the  side  fences  were  plain 
planks,  with  here  and  there  a  board  missing,  and  wild  bushes, 
mallow  and  acacia  and  mustard,  pushing  themselves  through, 
and  the  tracks  of  tag-playing  children  running  under  them. 

59 


6o  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

In  the  garden  were  all  the  Californian  garden  flowers,  with 
a  few  truant  poppies  creeping  in  from  the  neighbouring  lots, 
and  a  few  eastern  blooms  that  Mrs.  Crabtree,  with  other  home- 
sick eastern  women,  had  somewhat  unsuccessfully  tried  to 
encourage  there.  She  was  an  unusually  energetic  and  rest- 
less woman,  with  real  imagination,  but  she  could  never  face 
facts.  Lucy  indulged  in  dreams,  and  dish  water  cooled  and 
time  passed  while  she  elaborated  them.  She  never  went  to 
San  Rafael  without  telling  May  what  could  be  done  with 
that  big  house.  She  would  sit  down  in  her  own  disorderly 
home,  with  beds  unmade  and  dishes  unwashed,  three  times  a 
week,  from  breakfast  until  almost  noon,  working  out  to  the 
last  penny  the  profits  that  she  would  undoubtedly  make  from 
some  scheme  or  another. 

There  was  never  an  empty  house  in  the  neighbourhood  into 
which  Lucy  did  not,  in  imagination,  move,  taking  boarders, 
opening  a  girls'  school,  teaching  music,  cooking  for  other  house- 
wives. 

"Biscuits "  she  would  say  thoughtfully.     " Nelly I" 

"Yes,  Mama!"  Nelly  would  stop  washing  her  face,  in 
the  adjoining  room,  the  better  to  hear. 

"Nelly,  what  ought  I  get  for  my  biscuits?  Ten  cents  a 
dozen?" 

"Oh,  fifteen."  Nelly,  hungry  for  lunch,  would  emerge. 
"Mama,  did  you  remember  tea?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  didn't!  And  I  don't  know  that  we  have 
any  butter.     You  might  step  round  into  Mission  Street " 

No  use  to  be  angry:  it  was  just  Mama.  Nelly  would  return, 
nervously  hungry  and  tired  after  her  kindergarten  day,  to 
find  the  stove  still  cold,  and  Lucy  still  tranced,  at  the  table. 

"Nelly,  don't  you  marvel  that  people  don't  board  out  small 
children,  say  from  eight  to  six — or  half-past-eight  to  half-past 
five,  say?  Think  of  the  convenience!  A  woman  wants  to  go 
downtown,  she  can't  afford  a  regular  nurse " 

"Move  your  arm  just  a  little,  Mama,  I  want  the  bread 
knife,"  poor  Nelly  might  say  patiently.  She  knew  that  her 
mother  was  mentally  shepherding  a  score  of  small  pensioners, 
and  would  hear  no  reproach. 

Harry  had  long  ago  learned  to  humour  her;  he  was  not  clever 
enough  to  realize  just  how  difficult  she  made  life  for  him. 
Bilk  were  never  paid,  there  was  neither  system  nor  logic  about 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     61 

the  way  in  which  Lucy  kept  house.  She  forgot  economies,  and 
so  had  to  turn,  at  the  last  moment,  to  extravagances.  She 
bought  ridiculous  things,  because  they  fitted  into  some  one  of 
her  fantastic  dreams.  Her  air  was  always  that  of  the  econo- 
mist. It  was  economy,  she  said,  to  buy  Georgie  three  pairs  of 
shoes  at  a  time,  it  was  economy  to  pick  up  this  large,  almost 
new  sail,  at  an  auction,  because  if  she  ever  carried  out  her  idea 
of  having  a  tea  garden  in  the  backyard,  she  would  need  it. 

The  Harry  Crabtrees  were  always  moving,  because  Lucy 
had  always  good  reasons  for  the  move.  They  must  be  near 
this  street  in  case  she  opened  her  jelly  shop,  they  must  be  near 
some  other  or  she  could  not  find  a  market  for  her  hand-painted 
place  cards.  She  bought  boxes  of  oil  paints,  pyrographic  out- 
fits, straw  for  weaving,  glass  bottles  to  paint  for  bureau  sets. 
She  had  a  passion  for  walking  into  offices  and  information 
bureaus,  and  filling  out  blanks. 

Lucy  would  take  out  a  pencil  and  make  notes,  the  delighted 
agent  positive  as  he  answered  her  question  that  he  had  gotten 
hold  of  a  splendid  woman  at  last. 

"Now,  if  I  lectured  for  this  medicine,"  she  would  say,  "how 
many  small  towns  would  you  expect  me  to  cover  in  a  week?'* 
And  when  he  answered  she  would  frown  thoughtfully  and  nod. 
"I  see.  And  I  would  always  have  Sunday  with  my  husband 
and  children?     I  see." 

Walking  home,  elated  and  enthusiastic,  she  would  buy  her- 
self a  sensible  hand-bag  for  travelling.  And  she  would  tell 
Fanny  and  May  her  plans  quite  definitely. 

"Yes,  I  am  to  travel  for  the  Mason's  Magic  Salve,"  she 
would  assert  positively.  But  a  few  weeks,  or  even  days  later, 
when  Nelly  spoke  of  it,  she  would  answer  with  a  vigorous, 
"Nelly,  do  you  suppose,  if  I  went  into  chicken  farming,  they 
would  rent  me  that  vacant  lot  next  door?" 

Her  dreams,  of  recent  years,  included  brilliant  prospects, 
matrimonially,  for  Nelly  and  Alice.  Nelly,  in  her  kindergarten, 
would  meet  some  wealthy  philanthropist,  preferably  from  New 
York.  Alice  should  do  something  wonderful,  too.  For  Georgie 
his  mother  had  no  plans;  boys  did  not  interest  her,  she  quite 
frankly  admitted. 

Nelly  was  pretty  and  had  undeniable  charm,  and  Alice  was 
one  of  those  wonder-children  who  walk  in  an  aura  of  sweetness* 


62  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

beauty,  goodness,  and  fairness  of  their  own.  Nelly  often  fretted 
against  the  ugliness  and  monotony  of  poverty  and  work;  the 
necessity  for  self-denial  was  before  her  eyes,  but  she  turned 
her  head  away,  and  would  not  admit  it.  With  Nelly  there 
were  moods  in  which  it  was  "darn  these  old  dishes!"  and  "I 
don't  see  why  we  never  have  any  money!" 

And  when  these  times  came,  Alice  would  come  to  her  sister's 
side,  and  raising  the  blue  eyes  that  shone  like  flowers  in  her 
angelic  little  face,  would  coax  Nelly  into  a  better  mood. 

"Ah,  Nelly,  darling,  don't!  Some  day  we'll  have  every- 
thing, you  see  if  we  don't!  Everybody  does,  sooner  or  later. 
Mama,  doesn't  everybody's  luck  change  sooner  or  later?" 

"Changes  for  the  worse,  certainly!"  Lucy  might  reply, 
with  her  brisk  laugh.  "No,  my  dears,"  she  sometimes  said, 
"in  this  world  it's  the  people  who  grasp  and  cheat  and  steal 
that  get  everywhere." 

"Mama!"  gentle  little  Alice  would  say,  shocked, 

"Well,  look  about  you.  Your  father  and  I  have  always 
been  honest  and  hard-working,"  some  contrary  little  gnawing 
devil  within  would  prompt  Lucy  to  continue,  half  idly  and  half 
mischievously.  Her  daughters'  uncomfortable  faces  would 
satisfy  some  deep  craving  for  revenge  upon  an  unfair  world. 

"Mama!"  Alice's  lovely  little  earnest  face  would  be  wet 
with  passionate  tears  at  this  point.  "Can't  we — can't  we 
pray?" 

"Certainly  we  can  pray!"  And  Lucy  would  laugh  carelessly 
again.  Nelly  usually  laughed  in  response,  her  own  gay  light 
laugh,  but  the  pained  and  responsible  look  would  linger  upon 
the  little  sister's  face  for  hours  afterward. 

To-night,  when  they  reached  the  house,  Harry  Crabtree 
came  padding  to  the  door,  to  welcome  them.  He  had  been 
reading  under  the  kerosene  lamp  in  the  dining  room,  his  fair 
lined  face  was  blotched  with  heat,  and  his  thin  silky  hair  in 
disorder.  Georgie,  the  twelve-year-old  son  of  the  house,  was 
of  course  long  asleep:  his  father  spoke  cautiously,  not  to  awaken 
him. 

Harry  was,  of  old  Reuben's  four  children,  the  one  most  like 
him.  He  had,  at  forty-three,  the  same  deep  eye-sockets  and 
twinkling  smile.  But  power  and  success  had  given  Reuben  a 
firmer  jaw  and  a  readier  twinkle,  and  years  of  indecision  and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  63 

gentleness  and  failure  had  stamped  Harry  with  a  certain  anxious 
timidity. 

Like  all  the  family,  he  looked  first  at  Lucy;  her  mood  would 
set  the  key  for  the  conversation.  To  his  infinite  surprise  and 
relief,  he  found  her  pleasantly  inclined.  Lucy  was  vicariously 
warmed  by  the  attentions  of  Bertie,  and  Davy,  and  above  all 
of  Rudy  Sessions  to  Nelly. 

"Harry,"  she  said  by  way  of  greeting,  nodding  as  she  passed 
him  in  the  little  hallway.  "Well,  here  we  are.  You've 
cleaned  up?" 

"Georgie  and  I  thought  we  would,"  Harry  offered  mildly. 
In  the  lamplight,  the  odd  dome-shape  of  his  head  showed 
through  his  thin,  silky  hair.  Alice  fell,  rather  than  sat,  against 
his  arm,  perched  on  his  old  chair,  her  young  body  an  agony  of 
weariness.  Nelly,  smiling  mysteriously,  still  thrilling  to  those 
stolen  kisses  above  the  waters  of  the  bay,  stood  wearily  stretch- 
ing, yawning,  shrugging,  blinking,  as  she  rolled  the  limp  veil 
that  had  held  her  sugar-loaf  hat  in  place. 

"Cleaning  the  house,"  Lucy  said,  good-naturedly,  "has 
never  been  a  job  that  I  would  resent  giving  up,  for  once!" 

Harry's  face  was  radiant;  he  felt  all  a  child's  pleasure  in 
seeing  the  faces  it  loves  return. 

"We  had  a  real  good  time,  slopping  round  with  buckets 
and  brooms,"  he  said.  "And  then  we  went  out  to  the  Park, 
and — we  had  a  real  good  time." 

"You're  welcome!"  Lucy  said  drily,  with  her  effect  of  wit; 
and  the  girls  wearily  laughed. 

The  dining  room,  especially  to-night,  in  its  cleaned  and 
ordered  state,  was  a  pleasant,  shabby  little  place;  Georgie's 
schoolbooks,  of  an  indeterminate  brownish-black,  were  on  a 
side-table,  Alice's,  neatly  stitched  into  covers  of  blue  silicia, 
beside  them.  And  also  there  was  the  odorous  little  straw  lunch 
box  that  Nelly  carried  to  the  kindergarten  every  wet  day.  This 
was  Nelly's  Jfirst  job;  she  had  eleven  pupils  and  received  fif- 
teen dollars  a  month. 

Harry  and  his  wife  had  found  this  little  cottage  almost  six 
years  ago,  when  a  plan  for  raising  pigeons  had  been  uppermost 
in  Lucy's  mind.  It  had  been  reached  by  wandering  plank 
walks,  then,  and  surrounded  by  open  fields  where  cows  and 
goats  were  pastured  on  ropes.  Now  it  was  less  isolated;  there 
was  a  sidewalk.     Lucy  hated  it.     It  seemed  to  her  that  she 


64     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

had  never  lived  anywhere  else:  she  knew  every  knothole  in 
the  sidewalk,  where  Alice  played  "buttons"  with  neighbouring 
children,  and  every  defect  and  limitation  and  stain  and  odour 
of  the  five  stuffy  rooms. 

They  seemed  unusually  odorous  to-night,  after  the  fresh 
country  and  the  airy  bay  trip.  The  carpets  smelled,  and  the 
old  walls  smelled,  there  was  a  suggestion  of  mice,  of  apples,  of 
Georgie's  carbolic  liniment.  Lucy  sank  into  a  chair  and 
loosened  her  bonnet-strings,  and  launched  into  an  account  of 
the  day. 

"Rob's  improved,  I  think.  He  still  has  that  insincere  laugh 
of  his.  But  she's  awful — his  wife.  A  regular  married  old 
maid — it  was  nothing  but  family — family — family.  One  would 
think  we  were  barbarians!" 

"That's  the  Boston  of  it!"  Harry  said,  mildly. 

"Mama,"  Nelly  asked  animatedly,  "her  family's  no  better 
than  ours,  is  it?     Don't  we  come  of  a  very  good  family?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!  I  like  her  style!"  Lucy  said, 
vexedly.  "I  don't  know  what  she's  got  to  boast  about,  any- 
way, with  her  Copleys  and  her  family  silver!" 

Nelly  breathed  relievedly;  she  had  been  uneasy.  But  Alice 
continued  to  study  her  mother  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Mama!"  she  burst  out,  "I  thought  you  liked  Aunt  Ella  and 
Uncle  Rob!" 

"Did  you?"  Lucy  asked,  amusedly  and  satirically.  "Well, 
my  dear,  they  are  very  probably  going  to  have  just  what  they 
want  out  of  your  grandfather,  so  don't  write  them  a  sonnet 
to  tell  them  that  I  really  think  they're  a  pair  of  absolute  snobs!" 

This  would  not  have  hurt  her  feelings,  which  were  indeed  of 
the  toughest,  but  Alice  had  recently  attempted  her  first  verse- 
making,  and  had  bashfully  and  confidentially  shown  it  to  her 
mother.  There  were  shamed  tears  in  the  little  girl's  eyes  as 
she  kissed  her  father  good-night.  Harry  never  got  used  to  the 
miracle  of  it:  this  adorable  creature  his.  In  kissing  any  one 
of  the  three  children  he  always  made  a  little  appreciative  hum- 
ming noise:  "M-m-m-m!  God  bless  her  beautiful  little  heart 
and  soul.     .     .     ." 

Alice  shared  with  Nelly  a  little  bedroom  that  opened  off 
the  kitchen.  It  had  another  door,  leading  into  her  mother's 
room,  and  from  Lucy's  room  one  might  step  in  turn  into  the 
dining  room  again.     These  four  rooms,   square-set,  were  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  65 

entire  cottage,  except  the  little  central  hall  they  had  entered, 
and  the  parlour  opening  from  it,  in  front.  A  small  oblong 
porch,  roofed,  ran  along  the  side  of  the  parlour,  to  the  hall. 

The  parlour  was  bay-windowed  and  had,  besides  a  bed  lounge, 
an  upright  piano,  on  which  the  girls  practised  faithfully.  There 
were  fine  inside  wooden  shutters  in  the  bay,  but  no  roller  shades. 
In  Mrs.  Crabtree's  room,  and  the  girls'  room  behind  it,  were 
plain  walnut  wardrobes;  there  was  no  closet  in  the  house,  and 
no  running  water  except  at  the  kitchen  sink.  The  family 
performed  its  ablutions  at  large  china  basins  set  on  wooden 
stands. 

Harry  Crabtree  paid  fifteen  dollars  a  month  for  the  cottage, 
a  sum  that  represented  about  one  seventh  of  his  income.  He 
was  employed  in  an  eastern  rubber  firm  that  had  been  estab- 
lished for  about  ten  years,  on  Market  Street,  and  liked  his  home 
and  his  work  with  the  unquestioning  simplicity  that  was  part  of 
his  nature. 

He  told  his  wife  now  that  he  and  Georgie  had  had  a  fine  day. 
They  had  cleaned  the  house  thoroughly,  and  watered  the  gar- 
den, and  then  had  gone  out  to  Golden  Gate  Park.  There  was  a 
special  hill  there,  down  which  children  were  permitted  to  roll, 
and  Georgie  had  watched  the  children  while  his  father  watched 
the  astonishing  number  of  fine-looking  teams  that  were  driven 
by,  phaetons  and  surreys,  and  even  a  brougham  or  two.  There 
was  a  bicycle  club  out  too,  and  Harry  and  a  man  sitting  near 
him  had  commented  upon  the  new  bicycles,  "safety  bicycles," 
that  were  beginning  to  be  discussed.  And  finally,  they  had 
listened  to  the  band.  Harry  was  never  particularly  articulate, 
but  his  wife  knew  that  in  all  his  life  there  were  no  moments 
happier  than  those  he  spent  every  Sunday  on  the  benches  under . 
the  trees  in  the  Park,  reading  the  newspaper,  watching  the 
crowds  and  listening  to  the  fresh,  spirited  strains  of  the  band 
in  its  shell-shaped  stand. 

Every  Sunday  he  hunted  up  the  programme  for  the  day  in  his 
breakfast  newspaper,  and  cut  it  out  carefully  and  placed  it  in 
his  pocketbook.  If  one  of  his  favourite  selections  was  in- 
cluded, he  was  always  delighted.  Selections  from  "Faust," 
"The  Lost  Chord,"  and  certain  marches  were  his  choice,  but 
he  liked  everything.  Sometimes  Alice,  sometimes  Nelly  and  a 
young  man,  sometimes  Georgie  went  with  him,  and  sometimes 
they  all  went.     But  his  wife  never  accompanied  him;  she  couW 


66     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

not  bear  idle  and  aimless  wandering  about,  she  had  always  some 
object  in  view  when  she  left  home. 

To-day  her  expedition  had  given  her  food  for  thought.  She 
announced  herself  as  about  to  retire,  but  first  she  went  into  the 
parlour,  where  little  George  was  asleep  upon  the  bed  lounge. 
The  boy,  picturesque  in  his  sleep,  was  as  fair  almost  as  Nelly,  a 
long,  thin  boy  of  twelve,  who  did  not  look  strong,  although  he 
had  never  been  ill.  Lucy  straightened  the  sprawling  body  and 
arranged  the  pillow;  then  she  went  into  the  kitchen  to  heat  a 
kettle  of  water. 

When  the  water,  placed  over  a  few  sticks  of  blazing  wood,  was 
hot,  she  carried  it  into  the  bedroom  and  proceeded  to  wash  her 
hands  and  face  thoroughly  with  plenty  of  odorous  soap  that  was 
streaked  with  pink,  yellow/green,  and  blue.  Harry  was  in  bed, 
the  lamp  lighted  at  his  elbow,  a  green  shade  over  his  eyes,,  and 
the  Sunday  paper  in  his  hands. 

"I  declare  I  feel  dusty  into  the  marrow!"  said  Lucy.  "You 
did  the  dishes  ?" 

Her  husband  knew  that  she  was  pleased  with  him.  She  and 
the  girls  had  hurried  off  after  a  late  breakfast  and  had  left  the 
kitchen  in  great  confusion.  Harry  had  not  only  given  the  small 
boy  a  carefully  cooked  supper  of  poached  eggs  and  stewed 
apricots,  but  he  had  washed  every  spoon  and  cup,  wiped  out  the 
sink,  and  hung  the  ragged  dish-towels  neatly  on  the  porch  rail- 
ing- 

"I  shouldn't  be  one  bit  surprised  if  Rob  Crabtree  had  come 

back  here  expecting  to  go  in  with  your  father !"  Lucy  said 
presently.  "I  think  May  suspects  it — and  of  course  she  is 
scared  to  death!" 

"I  don't  see  why  she  should  be,"  Harry  said,  his  finger  holding 
a  line ;  "  Pa  lets  Stephen  run  everything  and  always  will ! " 

"Yes,  but  that  doesn't  make  the  business  Stephen's,  Harry," 
his  wife  answered  quickly.  "And  I  don't  think  Stephen  would 
welcome  Rob  one  bit!" 

"How's  everyone  over  there?"  Harry  yawned. 

"Oh — the  whole  crowd  bores  me  almost  to  death,"  Lucy 
answered,  sharply;  "lots  to  eat,  of  course!  Nelly  had  three 
beaux,  and  Alice  got  hold  of  a  book,  so  they  had  a  nice  time! 
They're  going  to  start  Bertie  in  at  the  store." 

She  did  not  quite  want  to  tell  him;  yet  the  fact  had  been 
angering  her  all  day,  and  to  impart  it  was  to  ease  it.     "Stephen, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  67 

by  some  hocus-pocus,  has  managed  to  start  him  off  at  seventy- 
five  dollars  a  month,"  she  said. 

That  stirred  him,  as  she  knew  it  would.  His  own  salary  was 
not  much  more,  and  he  had  been  faithfully  and  honestly  and 
soberly  clerking  in  one  office  or  another  for  twenty-three  years. 
Had  he  heard  that  Stephen  Brewer  had  made  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  the  past  year — had  he  heard  that  Rob's  wife  wore  the 
Cullinan  diamond,  it  would  have  cut  him  less  deep.  But  his 
nephew,  the  gay  and  handsome  boy  who  had  just  returned  from 
such  a  joyous  holiday  in  the  east  as  Harry  had  never  had  in  his 
life,  this  ignorant  Bertie  was  to  waste  on  his  pleasures  almost  as 
much  as  his  uncle  could  earn  to  hold  a  family  of  five  together. 
But  Harry  Crabtree  had  eaten  the  bread  of  mildness  and  hu- 
mility for  a  long  time  now,  and  he  could  smile,  after  a  minute, 
with  a  philosophical  shake  of  his  head. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'd  do  it  for  Georgie,  if  I  happened  to  be  in 
Steve's  shoes!" 

"You  ought  to  be  in  Steve's  shoes,"  Lucy  said.  "You're  a 
Crabtree.     He's    not!" 

She  had  placed  the  big  china  basin  of  still  warm  water  on 
the  floor,  and  now  put  both  her  dusty,  tired  feet  into  it. 

"My,  that  feels  good!"  she  said,  giving  her  silent  husband, 
who  was  looking  thoughtfully  off  his  paper,  a  somewhat  ques- 
tioning glance. 

"I  suppose  if  I'd  been  the  kind  of  fellow  Steve  is,  Looce,"  he 
said,  a  little  sadly,  "I  would  be  there!  I — I  kinder  hope  Bob 
will.  I  must  run  into  the  Occidental  to-morrow  and  see  Bob. 
Steve — Steve  is  going  to  pay  Bertie — pay  him  all  that  money, 
eh?  Well,  money  isn't  happiness,  after  all.  It'll  give  the  boy 
queer  ideas — I  should  think." 

Mrs.  Crabtree  had  brushed  her  fine,  thick  hair,  washed  face 
and  hands  and  feet,  and  now  stood  up,  refreshed  and  at  peace. 
She  carried  out  a  tin  pail  of  water,  and  stepping  gingerly  on  the 
plank  walks  of  the  garden,  in  her  ravelling,  discoloured  old 
worsted  bedroom  slippers,  she  splashed  the  unexpected  drink 
upon  the  sweet  peas,  standing  up  like  little  gallant  spears  on 
their-supported  vines. 

It  was  a  balmy  night,  no  hint  of  autumn  yet  in  the  air.  There 
was  a  light  in  the  two-story  house  next  door — Miss  Clay's  room. 
Miss  Clay  was  Davy  Dudley's  depressed  and  shabby  aunt,  who 
had  kept  boarders  for  years.     Lucy  Crabtree,  peering  sharply 


68  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

at  the  lighted  window,  under  the  mild  arch  of  the  Milky  Way, 
wondered  if  Nelly  was  going  to  be  fool  enough  to  marry  the  lad, 
and  turn  sheets  and  peel  vegetables  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

She  went  in,  locked  the  kitchen  door,  and  climbed  into  bed, 
immediately  hooping  herself,  plunging  her  head  into  the  pillow, 
and  shutting  her  eyes.  Her  husband  asked,  as  he  had  asked  five 
thousand  times,  whether  the  light  disturbed  her,  and  she  mur- 
mured, already  half  asleep,  an  emphatic  "No!" 

"Funny  that  this  very  night  I  should  be  reading — I  mean 

funny  in  connection  with  what  you  told  me  about  Bertie " 

Harry  began.  But  she  did  not  answer  even  with  the  sleepy 
grunt  he  half  expected,  and  realizing  that  she  was  exhausted, 
he  smiled  at  her,  and  made  no  further  attempt  to  disturb  her. 

If  any  one  had  told  Lucy,  the  vivacious  widow  of  seventeen 
years  ago,  that  she  would  marry  again,  on  the  strength  of  a 
lead  pencil,  she  would  have  laughed  in  utter  disbelief.  Yet  she 
had  done  something  very  like  that,  and  had  made  for  herself 
a  bed  in  which  she  sometimes  found  it  hard  to  lie.  Her 
first  husband,  Hopkinson  Carter,  had  been  a  man  of  some  little 
means,  who  had  drifted  to  California  immediately  after  the 
Civil  War,  eager  to  invest  his  capital  in  some  one  of  the  mar- 
vellous new  enterprises  that  were  beginning  to  interest  the 
Golden  State.  In  the  hotel  to  which  he  went,  a  comfortable 
big  place  on  Bush  and  Stockton  'Streets,  whose  spirited  man- 
ager was  a  squarely  built  Irishwoman  with  silvery  curls  fall- 
ing on  each  side  of  her  rosy,  smooth  cheeks,  he  had  met  pretty 
Lucy  Bunker,  an  eastern;  girl,  whose  uncle,  a  clergyman  in 
Hawaii,  was  bringing  the  girl  to  his  South  Sea  parish  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do  with  her.  Lucy  was 
seventeen. 

Five  weeks  later  she  was  married  to  Hopkinson  Carter,  and 
it  was  while  they  were  animatedly  discussing  the  investment  of 
his  seven  thousand  dollars  that  he  suddenly  fell  ill.  Mrs. 
Thompson,  the  kindly  manager  of  the  hotel,  who  pronounced 
every  letter  in  her  own  name,  and  went  to  Mass  every  morning 
at  old  Saint  Mary's,  and  to  market  afterward,  with  her  Irish 
egg-ring  in  her  shopping  bag,  was  extremely  tender  with  the 
frantic  bride.  She  converted  Hopkinson  Carter  to  her  own 
religion,  in  the  last  few  hours  of  his  life,  superintended  his  ob- 
sequies, and  insisted  that  the  weeping  Lucy  remain  with  her  and 
her  daughter,  at  least  until  "the  young  boy"  was  born.    The 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     69 

ung  boy  proved  to  be  a  young  girl,  the  beautiful  and  beloved 

elly  of  to-day,  and  with  Mrs.  Thompson's  help,  the  seven 
thousand  dollars  lasted  a  long  time.  Lucy  recovered  her  spirits 
and  her  interest  in  life. 

However,  when  Nelly  was  four  years  old,  the  roving  frog-like 
eyes  fell  upon  young  Harry  Crabtree,  and  Harry  was  quickly 
enslaved.  Lucy  would  not  have  married  him  for  himself.  She 
felt  entirely  independent,  with  her  good  old  friend  behind  her, 
her  thousands  in  the  bank,  and  her  beautiful  child. 

But  one  day  Harry  escorted  her  over  to  luncheon  with  his 
father  and  his  married  sister,  at  the  very  San  Rafael  mansion 
that  she  had  visited  to-day.  It  was  still  impressive:  it  had 
been  an  absolute  landmark  then.  People  went  to  visit  it, 
pointed  it  out,  asked  permission  to  walk  through  the  grounds. 
May,  with  her  lovely  nursery,  had  made  a  deep  impression  on 
Lucy,  and  little  Nelly  had  shrieked  with  ecstasy  over  ducks  and 
chickens. 

Coming  back  on  the  boat,  Harry  had  chanced  to  offer  the 
weary,  blissful  Nelly  a  long  pencil.  Lucy,  whose  arms  were 
full  of  flowers,  had  protested  that  Baby  must  not  lose  it. 

"Plenty  more!,,  Harry  had  said,  and  had  shown  her  that 
the  pencil  was  marked  with  the  name,  "E.  R.  Crabtree  and 
Co.  Spices,  Teas,  and  Coffees." 

Lucy  had  sat  silent,  struck. 

"Who's  the  Co.,  Mr.  Crabtree?" 

"My  brother  Bob,  and  I,  and  Stephen — May's  husband," 
he  had  answered  simply.  "Two  or  three  years  ago  my  father 
gave  us  all  some  stock!" 

Lucy  was  not  hard,  not  all  system  and  ambition  and  calcula- 
tion. But  she  felt  that  first  pang,  that  first  fear  of  losing  her 
man,  that  is  the  sure  forerunner  of  marriage. 

So  they  were  married,  and  lived  delightfully  on  Harry's 
salary  from  Crabtree  and  Company,  and  Lucy's  money,  and 
occasional  dividends  from  the  firm,  until  Nelly  was  eight. 
They  had  a  house  in  Stockton  Street  near  Bush,  with  a  picket 
fence,  and  bay-windows  that  came  down  to  the  floor,  and  with 
mill-work  embroidery  about  the  peaked  roof.  Lucy  theorized 
and  dreamed.  At  one  time  she  had  a  blue-glass  window  put  in 
for  "health-rays,"  and  at  another  studied  mesmerism.  She 
had  been  Harry's  wife  for  almost  four  years  and  Alice  was  a 


70     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tiny  baby,  when  Harry  was  persuaded,  largely  by  her  eager- 
ness, to  resign  from  his  father's  employ  and  accept  a  most 
flattering  offer  to  go  to  England  for  an  insurance  firm. 

Lucy  had  had  for  months  an  uneasy  feeling  that  justice  was 
not  being  done  Harry  by  Crabtree  and  Company.  Stephen, 
she  maintained,  was  running  everything;  Harry  was  a  fool  to 
stand  it.  His  father  would  die,  and  then  where  would  he  be? 
One  of  Stephen's  employees,  practically,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Harry  had  some  stock  in  the  business. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  been  kept  quiet  with  a  small  baby. 
Harry  had  warmly  befriended  an  old  Englishman,  sent  by  the 
head  of  an  insurance  firm  from  London  to  investigate  certain 
discrepancies  in  the  accounts  of  the  San  Francisco  office. 
Lionel  Braithwaite  had  reached  California  sick  and  weary,  and 
had  gone  to  bed  in  Mrs.  Thompson's  boarding  house  with  small 
idea  of  leaving  it  again.  The  San  Francisco  agent  had  fled, 
everything  was  in  desperate  confusion. 

Harry,  coming  and  going  in  the  Thompson  house  almost  like 
a  son,  had  played  cribbage  with  old  Braithwaite,  had  won  his 
confidence,  had  worked  over  troublesome  columns  of  pounds 
and  shillings,  had  interpreted  such  terms  as  "two  bits'  and  a 
"fifty  vara  lot."  When  Braithwaite  was  pronounced  too  ill 
for  anything  but  convalescense  in  the  sunny  south,  he  wrote 
of  Harry,  to  London,  and  London  wrote  promptly  for  Harry. 
Would  Mr.  Crabtree  consider  the  trip,  bringing  his  figures  and 
affidavits?  The  San  Francisco  agency  was  to  be  discontinued; 
perhaps  Mr.  Crabtree  would  consider  a  position  in  the  London 
office? 

Mr.  Crabtree  had  laughed  heartily  at  the  mere  idea.  But 
Mrs.  Crabtree's  frog-like  eyes  had  gleamed  with  excitement 
and  determination.  Of  course  they  would  go,  and  she  would 
like  to  be  present  when  Harry  told  Stephen  and  his  father! 
She  would  like  to  hear  what  May  said  to  the  news! 

Harry  felt  none  of  her  satisfaction.  His  father's  surprise 
hurt  him;  he  loved  his  silent  mother  and  was  sorry  to  kiss  her 
good-bye.  It  was  a  big  salary,  it  seemed  like  a  big  chance,  but 
it  meant  exile  to  him. 

•However,  he  got  real  happiness  from  Lucy's  joy.  They 
found  a  homesick  little  Devonshire  girl  who  would  travel  with 
them  as  the  children's  nurse,  just  for  the  trip;  Lucy's  heart  was 
bursting  with  a  sense  of  importance  as  they  went  off,  with  new 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     71 

coats  and  new  trunks,  pretty  little  interested  Nelly,  and  the 
lovely,  white-caped  baby. 

They  were  gone  more  than  two  years;  Harry  never  saw  his 
mother  again.  He  disliked  London,  the  Pimlico  apartment 
was  small  and  dark,  Lucy  was  unhappy,  and  the  children  did 
not  flourish.  A  sheer  mischance,  beginning  with  a  death,  and 
ending  with  an  entire  change  of  management  in  the  English 
insurance  firm,  altered  his  position  from  the  beginning  and 
handicapped  him.  The  pleasant  surface  customs  of  the  new 
life  Lucy  adopted  fast  enough,  but  there  was  a  fundamental 
difference  between  her  and  the  women  she  met  that  she  never 
even  vaguely  grasped.  Lucy  could  broaden  her  a's  and  drop 
her  g's,  she  could  serve  tea  and  gabble  about  "haypnies,"  but 
her  very  adaptability  antagonized  her  solid  new  neighbours  they 
distrusted  a  woman  so  eager  to  accept  the  new,  and  so  ready  to 
despise  her  own  country's  ways.  Loyalty  was  the  backbone  of 
their  own  creed. 

So  presently  it  seemed  wise  to  Lucy,  for  a  hundred  glibly  ex- 
pressed reasons,  for  them  to  return  to  California.  They  came 
at  the  darkest  hour  the  city  had  ever  seen,  from  a  business 
standpoint:  the  firm  of  Crabtree  and  Company  was  facing  real 
danger  for  the  first  time  in  its  flourishing  existence,  with  a 
thousand  other  firms.  But  Lucy  was  buoyed  by  the  thrilling 
discussions  she  had  had  on  the  train  with  a  mining  man  from 
Placer  County,  and  she  urged  Harry  to  sell  his  stock  to  his 
father,  and  put  his  money  instantly  into  a  mine. 

Meanwhile,  pending  gratifying  developments  from  the 
mine,  Lucy  took  a  comfortable  house  in  which  to  await  the 
birth  of  the  child  who  was  Georgie,  and  Harry  accepted  a  posi- 
tion with  the  Atlas  Rubber  concern.  She  annoyed  May  and 
Fanny  considerably  at  this  time,  and  made  them  uneasy,  by 
talk  of  the  enormous  fortune  that  was  coming.  Harry  could 
not  make  less  than  a  million,  probably  would  make  more. 
Look  at  the  money  the  Fairs  and  the  Crockers  and  the  Hopkins 
had  made!     And  what  had  they  put  in?     Practically  nothing. 

Fanny's  fortune  and  May's  comfortable  income  seemed 
nothing  beside  these  dreams.  Harry's  sisters  were  alternately 
incredulous  and  jealous  as  they  listened. 

But  when  months  went  by,  and  the  mine  remained  passive, 
Lucy  comforted  herself  with  plans  for  a  boarding  house  some- 
what  like   Mrs.   Thompson's.     If  Mrs.   Thompson  and  Miss 


72     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Kitty  went  abroad,  perhaps  Lucy  would  take  over  the  house, 
"until  the  mine  was  paying."  Lucy  estimated  what  she  must 
charge  her  boarders,  and  how  she  would  mark  her  linen.  If 
May  and  Stephen  and  the  children  came  over  for  a  winter  stay 
in  the  city,  her  rates  would  be  this  and  this. 

"I  shall  tuck  Bertie  into  a  hall  bedroom,"  said  Lucy;  "he's  a 
boy — boys  don't  mind.  A  large  room  for  you  and  Stephen,  two 
small  ones,  possibly  alcoved,  for  the  girls.  Every  Tuesday  night 
I  shall  talk  things  over  frankly  with  my  servants.  They  can  ex- 
press their  grievances,  and  I  will  mine,  so  don't  hesitate  to  tell 
me  if  anything  goes  wrong;  but  tell  me  before  Tuesday,  if  you 
can.    Now,  at  what  time  does  Stephen  come  down  to  breakfast  ? " 

May  and  Fanny  thought  that  Lucy  was  really  admirable  to 
take  this  splendid  stand,  even  while  lying  in  bed  with  her  little 
boy.  They  agreed  reluctantly  that  it  was  just  Lucy's  luck, 
capable  and  energetic  as  she  was,  to  have  the  mine  make  her 
a  fortune  after  all. 

Meanwhile,  Harry  got  his  job  with  the  rubber  company,  and 
the  Harry  Crabtrees  moved  "temporarily"  into  a  small  house. 
Lucy,  as  the  children  grew  older,  read  for  an  hour  daily  to  old 
Mrs.  Lemmon;  she  planned  a  sort  of  old  ladies'  club  meanwhile, 
where  a  score,  instead  of  one,  might  be  amused.  She  took 
charge  of  poor  little  Pidgie  Reed,  when  Carrie  Reed  went  to 
New  York  for  a  month,  and  actually  cured  Pidgie  of  stuttering, 
to  her  enduring  credit  and  pride.  And  she  came  over  to  May, 
in  San  Rafael,  when  Aunt  Jenny  died,  and  was  extremely  artic- 
ulate and  busy.  May  and  Fanny  appreciated  this,  and  agreed 
that  they  could  not  be  under  obligations  to  Lucy,  and  on  the 
very  day  of  the  funeral  May  came  prettily  to  her  sister-in-law, 
with  one  of  the  old  lady's  scarfs  in  her  hand,  and  a  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece  wrapped  in  the  scarf. 

"Please,  Lucy!  Steve  and  I  know  that  you  have  good  use 
for  it!"  May  had  stammered.  Tears  were  in  both  their 
eyes  as  they  kissed  each  other.  And  Lucy,  with  this  precious 
money,  had  bought  a  stock  of  liquid  clothes-mender  at  three 
cents  a  bottle  to  be  retailed  for  ten,  and  later,  a  steamer  that 
cooked  the  seven  articles  of  a  dinner  at  once. 

The  former  dT'd  not  retail  as  she  had  expected,  and  was  stored 
in  the  cellar  closet,  where  the  next  tenant  found  it — some  one 
hundred  and  thirty-five  flat  little  inky  bottles  with  saturated 
labels.     The  latter  cooked  well  enough,  if  a  roaring  fire  was 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  73 

under  it,  but  it  always  got  so  hot  and  whistled  so  loudly,  and 
its  sections  stuck  so  tightly  together,  that  Lucy  got  furious  at 
it  and  put  it  away. 

At  forty-four,  she  felt  for  her  husband  only  a  certain  ab- 
stracted appreciation.  He  was  her  best  audience.  To  his 
timid  criticisms  she  paid  not  the  faintest  attention,  but  she 
liked  him  to  listen  to  her  schemes.  And  whenever  he  was  ten 
minutes  late  to  dinner,  her  insatiable  imagination  was  off  upon 
a  favourite  exercise.  Harry  had  been  instantly  killed  by  a  car; 
he  had  collapsed  in  the  office.  An  accident  had  widowed  her, 
and  slowly  and  solemnly,  they  were  bringing  him  home. 

With  what  dignity  she  would  meet  them  at  the  door;  show 

them  his  room  and  his  bed!     Widowed!     She  must  face  life  now 

courageously;  the  children  looked  to  her;  Fanny,  May,  all  her 

I  world  was  watching.     "May,  will  you  take  my  boy  for  a  little 

I  while?     Stephen,  will  you  go  over  my  accounts?     I  must  be  a 

i  business  woman  now.     .     .     ." 

It  was  usually  at  about  this  time  that  the  persistently  living 
i  Harry  would  return,  apologetic  for  the  stopped  car  or  the 
I  office  delay.     Lucy  always  welcomed  him  philosophically. 

"Harry,  my  dear,  I've  been  thinking  about  that  scheme  for 
school  boy's  lunches.  If  we  were  nearer  the  school — if  we  took 
that  big  place  opposite  the  Horace  Mann — I  wonder  if  you 
would  step  out  and  get  us  some  milk,  Harry?  You've  got  your 
hat  on.     I  meant  to  ask  Nelly.     .     .     ." 

To  Nelly,  who  was  far  from  being  the  sophisticated  woman 
j  of  the  world  that  her  San  Rafael  cousins  thought  her,  had  come 
a  strange  experience,  on  that  Sunday  night.     She  had  been 
i  kissed  before,  in  a  haphazard  youthful  way,  but  she  had  never 
I  before  known  kisses  like  Davy  Dudley's.     The  scene  on  the 
i  narrow  lower  deck  of  the  ferry-boat,  just  above  the  dark  back- 
i  ward  streaming  of  the  black  water  flecked  with  white  foam, 
j  recurred  and  recurred  to  her,  as  she  taught  her  little  kinder- 
garten  class  in   the   dreamy  stillness   of  the  warm  Monday 
1  morning.     Davy  had  been  silent  and  resentful  at  first,  because 
'  Rudy  Sessions  had  monopolized  her  all  afternoon,  and  Bertie 
!  Brewer  had  accompanied  her  to  Saucelito  on  the  way  home. 
j  But  Nelly  had  tucked  her  little  person  close  beside  him  on  the 
bench,  and  had  slipped  her  boneless,  soft  little  hand  into  his, 
land  had  murmured  and  apologized  enchantingly,  and  then  he 


74  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

had  kissed  her,  harshly  and  passionately,  and  with  his  arm 
like  a  vise  about  her  shoulders. 

She  thought  of  it,  tired,  dreamy,  half-bewildered,  during 
the  school  hours  of  Monday,  and  she  thought  of  it  walking 
home  in  the  soft  afternoon.  The  summer  winds  were  over,  and 
the  shabby  Mission  looked  homelike,  if  not  beautiful,  to  the 
girl's  changed  eyes.  She  was  conscious  of  a  warm  thrill  through- 
out all  her  being,  and  a  little  sense  of  laughter  behind  that — 
a  little  sense  of  marvelling  that  it  was  Davy  Dudley  who  had 
so  stirred  her!  At  one  moment  she  thought  that  she  would 
like  to  see  him  again,  and  at  another  she  decided  that  he  must 
be  avoided. 

The  cottage  was  empty  when  she  entered  it  by  the  kitchen 
door,  and  on  the  kitchen  table  was  a  note  in  her  mother's 
beautiful  clear  handwriting. 

"Your  father  has  been  injured — they  say  not  seriously — and 
taken  to  the  hospital.  Mr.  Crane  came  for  me.  Give  the 
children  their  supper — Geordie  has  gone  to  Ollie's  house. 
Don't  worry — we  must  all  be  brave.     Muddy." 

This — the  most  thrilling  summons  that  had  stirred  Lucy 
Crabtree's  blood  in  many  years — merely  roused  in  Nelly  a 
gentle  and  shocked  pity.  Papa  hurt!  it  didn't  seem  true.  She 
went  vaguely  about  the  supper  preparations;  she  had  little  of 
her  mother's  or  even  Alice's  cleverness  in  the  kitchen,  and  began 
to  remember  Davy  again. 

Alice  came  in,  breathless  from  running,  and  with  the  news 
that  Miss  Polk  of  the  Seventh  was  dead  at  last.  She  received 
the  intelligence  of  her  father  with  round-eyed  excitement. 

"Oh,  Nelly — I  should  rather  hear  that  he  was  instantly 
killed,  thtan  that  he  should  have  to  linger  and  suffer!"  Alice 
said,  awed.  "Poor  papa — and  poor  Muddy!  I  hope,"  she 
added  solemnly,  "that  the  shock  won't  kill  her!  We  should 
just  have  to  face  the  world  ourselves,  wouldn't  we?  Let  me 
do  that,  Nelly.  Listen — I'm  going  to  fry  the  cold  beets  right 
in  with  the  potatoes — I  should  think  that  would  be  good, 
shouldn't  you?  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  we  ought  to  be  going  on 
just  as  usual,  does  it?  But  I  suppose  we  ought  to.  Nelly, 
what  could  I  do,  if  I  had  to  work?  Because  if — if  anything 
happens — I  will  have  to.  What  are  we  going  to  have?  The 
fried  potatoes  and  sliced  tomatoes  and  apple  sauce.  You 
can  have  tea.     There  is  some  of  that   meat  pie   there " 


m 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  75 

"I  thought  we  might  leave  that  in  case  Muddy  came  back," 
Nelly  said,  carelessly  setting  an  end  of  the  kitchen  table,  as 
was  customary  for  the  less  formal  meals.  "Here's  Georgie," 
she  said,  as  a  slender  boy  came  smiling  in,  with  a  book  under 
his  arm.     "Georgie " 

Both  sisters  kissed  him  as  they  told  him  the  startling  news, 
and  Nelly  smoothed  back  the  fair,  fine  hair  from  his  moist  fore- 
head. All  three  young  people  were  almost  pleasantly  shaken 
by  the  unexpected  event,  and  the  unusualness  of  their  eating 
alone  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  lighted  by  the  streaming,  straight 
rays  of  the  sunset.  They  scraped  their  plates,  which  was 
usual  in  that  house,  while  they  discussed  the  possibilities,  and 
had  finished  the  last  of  the  apple  sauce  when,  with  his  usual 
little  nervous  clearing  of  the  throat  and  his  cheerful  greeting, 
their  father  came  in. 

With  great  shrieks  of  laughter  and  surprise,  the  three  gathered 
about  him,  and  Harry  Crabtree  had  no  reason  to  complain  of 
his  welcome.  He  explained,  sitting  down  rosy  and  rumpled 
in  their  midst,  that  he  had  indeed  been  knocked  down  by  a 
Market  Street  cable  car,  had  been  rushed  to  a  hospital,  and 
had  there  recovered  enough  to  protest  that  he  was  perfectly 
well.  However,  they  had  thumped  and  poked  him  a  little,  he 
said,  before  letting  him  come  home. 

"Well,  you  don't  seem  to  like  the  idea  of  the  old  man  getting 
killed!"  he  said,  in  great  feather.     "Where's  your  mother?" 

"Gone  after  you — she'll  be  right  back  again,"  said  Alice,  as 
they  finished,  "so  you  go  wash,  and  Nelly  and  I  will  get  you 
some  dinner!" 

Nelly  nodded  and  sighed.  She  secretly  hated  the  kitchen. 
But  as  Harry  turned  to  go  he  brought  an  odd  little  unexpected 
thrill  to  her  heart  by  adding:  "I  meet  Davy  Dudley  at  the 
corner  almost  every  night,  Nelly.     What's  he  doing  now?" 

"Oh,  he's  still  with  the  Mission  Hardware  people.  But  he 
teaches  night  school,  too,  you  know!" 

"He  said    please  to "     Harry   rubbed  his  head.     "He 

sent  you  some  message — I  think  he  said  his  aunt  wanted  to  see 
you!"  he  said,  and  turned  into  the  dim  little  bedroom.  Here 
he  laid  his  derby  hat  and  coat  on  the  bed  and  carefully  un- 
buttoned his  collar.  It  would  do  for  to-morrow,  he  decided, 
hanging  it  on  the  little  knob  that  regulated  the  mirror.  He 
washed  his  face,  and  wet  and  brushed  his  thin  hair,  took  his 


■ 


76  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

newspaper  out  of  his  coat,  and  went  refreshed  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  Nelly  had  already  set  the  simple  table  for  two  and 
was  moving  about  with  final  touches. 

Harry  drew  her  to  him,  and  she  kissed  him  lovingly.  Alice 
came  in  with  filled  glasses,  and  kissed  him,  too,  and  his  adored 
boy  came  and  sat  beside  him,  reading  his  book  with  avidity, 
but  keeping  one  hand  on  his  father's. 

Upon  this  scene  came  Lucy,  tired  and  hungry,  and  exasper- 
ated because  she  had  wasted  five  carfares  and  three  hours  for 
nothing.  She  kissed  her  husband  too,  and  had  self-control 
enough  to  express  relief  before  she  said  that  that  lying  little 
alarmist  of  a  clerk,  who  had  seen  the  accident  and  given  the 
alarm,  should  have  been  spanked,  dragging  people  all  over  the 
city  and  scaring  them  to  death. 

However,  the  heated  meat  pie  and  freshly  boiled  potatoes 
appeared,  and  Alice  had  brewed  delicious  tea  and  toasted 
the  bread,  and  under  the  soothing  influence  of  supper,  Lucy 
regained  her  usual  good-nature  and  loitered  in  her  usual  fashion, 
after  the  lamp  was  lit  and  the  food-supply  reduced  to  the  last 
mentioned  article. 

It  was  almost  nine  when  she  went  into  the  kitchen  with  the 
last  cup,  to  find  that  her  daughters  had  finished  all  the  other 
dishes  and  reduced  the  hot  little  region  to  perfect  order.  Al- 
together, life  was  just  a  little  changed  by  Harry's  near  escape; 
a  little  glamour  clung  about  it  that  was  new. 

Harry  followed  her  to  the  kitchen,  to  read  some  article  con- 
cerning the  Mechanics  Library,  and  Nelly,  who  had  been 
watching  her  chance  with  a  hammering  heart,  went  to  the 
yard  door. 

"Dearest  child,"  her  mother  said,  fussing  about,  "isn't 
there  an  egg?" 

"Not  one,  Muddy — Papa  and  Georgie  had  fried  egg  sand- 
wiches last  night." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Mrs.  Crabtree  stood  irresolute.  If  there 
had  been  an  egg,  the  absence  of  bread  might  have  been  made 
up  with  "johnny  cake"  for  breakfast.  With  no  eggs  and  no 
bread,  still  she  might  have  quick  biscuit.  But  the  lard  was 
out,  too.  Lucy  was  annoyed;  she  sighed.  She  had  no  eyes 
for  the  thrilling  and  glowing  Nelly. 

"Muddy — I  wanted  to  stop  and  speak  to  Miss  Clay.  She 
asked  me  to.     And  I'll  get  some  eggs " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     77 

"Borrow  six,"  Lucy  decided,  slowly.  "And  don't  be  long, 
dear."  And  she  began  to  mix  the  cereal  that  would  steep  on 
the  back  of  the  warm  stove  all  night. 

Nelly,  still  irresolute,  fluttered  through  the  warm  soft  darkness 
of  the  yard  and  hesitated  at  the  gate.  The  house  next  door 
showed  a  light  at  the  kitchen  and  dining-room  windows.  She 
longed  for  Davy,  and  she  was  afraid  of  her  longing.  She  wanted 
to  add  something  new  to  last  night's  half  amusing,  half  frighten- 
ing facts,  just  to  have  more  of  that  thrilling  and  novel  emotion! 

Miss  Lillian  Clay  was  a  desolate,  whining,  down-at-heels 
woman,  who  dragged  out  a  precarious  existence  next  door  to  the 
Crabtrees,  with  a  boarding  and  rooming  house.  She  was  a 
dark,  lean;  oily-skinned  woman  of  fifty,  with  stringy  gray  hair. 
Sometimes  she  had  roomers,  sometimes  boarders,  sometimes 
what  she  called  "tablers,"  families  who  came  in  simply  for 
meals,  from  the  neighbourhood.  Her  rooms  were  dirty  and 
shabby,  papered  in  depressing  browns  and  grays;  her  meals 
were  always  bad.  She  generally  kept  a  dirty  and  untrained 
Japanese  school-boy  to  help  her,  but  in  particularly  bad  times 
gave  up  even  this  weekly  expenditure  of  two  dollars. 

The  Clays  had  settled  in  Napa  about  the  middle  of  the 
century,  when  Lillian  was  a  young  girl.  Her  sister  Delia  had 
married  a  prosperous  young  man,  Jim  Dudley,  who  operated 
the  first  small  trucking  business  in  the  town.  The  Clays  had 
a  languishing  farm.  Lillian  had  had  a  comfortable  childhood, 
and  had  drifted  into  one  of  those  endless  engagements  so 
common  in  country  towns.  During  the  fourteen  years  of  her 
"keeping  company"  with  a  consumptive  young  express  agent, 
Lillian  had  chafed  and  fretted  incessantly;  when  he  died  she 
had  come  at  once  to  San  Francisco,  which  seemed  to  her  a 
great  city.  Meanwhile  her  mother  and  father  had  died  of 
obscure  and  slow  diseases,  the  farm  was  sold  for  the  mortgage, 
and  her  sister  Delia  Dudley  had  been  widowed  by  the  accidental 
discharge  of  a  duck-hunter's  gun;  all  the  men  in  town  went 
duck-hunting,  and  every  season  had  its  toll. 

Delia  was  left  with  an  old  mansarded  house,  and  with  three 
children,  Mary,  'Lizabeth,  and  David.  'Lizabeth  worked  in 
the  post-office,  Mary  had  ambitions  to  graduate  from  Normal 
school;  and  Davy  sent  his  money,  every  cent  he  could  spare. 
Lilly  didn't  know  how  Delia  got  along,  she  sometimes  said 


78     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

irritably,  and  didn't  want  to  know.  Dell  had  probably  got 
something  for  Jim's  teams  and  trucks,  and  she  could  rent  all 
them  upstairs  rooms.  But  Lilly  personally  would  not  concern 
herself;  she  said  bitterly  that  the  family  seemed  "God  gifted 
with  trouble.  Let  'em  work  it  out  without  her;  she  was 
foundered  on  hard  times!" 

She  had  no  sympathy  with  Davy's  ambition  to  become  a 
doctor;  but  she  was  glad  enough  to  house  him  and  grumble  at 
him  and  to  him.  She  said  he  was  a  real  "sweet  feller,"  and 
she  trusted  him,  if  he  was  "sort  of  innocent." 

David  was  a  big,  loosely  jointed  youth,  with  large  hands  and 
feet  and  a  pleasant,  bashful  smile.  His  face  was  heavily 
freckled  and  his  hair  somewhat  rough.  He  felt  himself  an  out- 
sider with  young  persons  who  were  educated,  refined,  and  rich, 
and  stared  at  such  girls  as  the  Brewers  in  uncomfortable  ad- 
miration and  surprise.  They  were  "young  ladies";  with  them 
he  had  nothing  in  common. 

David  had  failed  in  his  examinations  to  enter  medical  school; 
he  felt  himself  a  failure  in  every  way.  He  worked  now  in  a 
hardware  store,  taught  mathematics  and  chemistry  in  a  night 
school,  waited  on  tables  in  a  cheap  restaurant  for  his  lunch, 
studied  his  physiologies  whenever  he  had  a  free  half-hour, 
and  prayed  every  night  on  his  knees  that  ever}  hing  would  go 
all  right  with  Mother  and  the  girls,  and  that  ne  would  be  a 
doctor,  and  that  Nelly  Crabtree  would  wait  for  him. 

He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  by  such  slow  degrees  that  he 
had  not  had  time  to  be  afraid  of  her.  She  was  such  a  sweet 
little  friendly  creature  that  perhaps  he  never  would  have  feared 
her  anyway.  When  he  was  with  her,  Davy  forgot  how  cold 
he  was,  all  winter  long,  and  how  little  money  he  had,  and  that 
his  big  arms  were  sticking  out  of  his  sleeves.  He  forgot  the 
grim  realities  of  his  aunt's  boarding  house,  and  the  sharp  need 
in  his  mother's  home;  forgot  his  mother  sweeping  down  the 
stairs,  and  'Lizabeth  crying  over  a  lost  postal-order,  and 
Mary  with  her  thin  little  jacket  patched  at  the  elbow.  When 
he  was  with  Nelly,  the  world  held  only  Nelly. 

To-night  Nelly  came  into  Miss  Clay's  kitchen  somewhat 
timidly;  it  was  just  nine  o'clock;  Davy  would  be  back  from 
school  in  a  few  minutes  now.  Miss  Clay,  with  her  draggled 
black   alpaca  sleeves  turned  up   at  the  wrists,  was  seated  at 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  79 

the  stained  and  scarred  kitchen  table,  manipulating  a  blackened 
saucepan  and  a  small  disk  of  tin. 

"  Come  in,  Nelly,  do !"  she  said.  "  I  was  just  settin'  here  won- 
dering about  you  folks.  How's  Mama? — that's  good.  Look 
what  I'm  doin'  here — some  smarty  alec  sold  me  this  at  the  door 
for  two  bits  to-day.  He  and  I  got  talking — I  guess  I  was  stand- 
ing there  half  an  hour  in  the  hot  sun — with  my  lunch  fire  goin' 
out!  He  says  y'  can  mend  anything  that's  got  a  hole  in  it  with 
this  here — but  I  showed  it  to  Davy,  and  he  said  they  had  better 
than  that  in  the  store.  'S'e,  'just  reeve  round  the  hole,  mam/ 
— well,  I  lay  I'd  make  that  feller  travel  if  I  could  come  up  with 
him!"  finished  Miss  Clay  disgustedly,  bundling  the  reever  and 
the  patches  together  into  a  small  brown  envelope  and  abandon- 
ing her  efforts,  "Take  it  over  to  your  Mama,  Nelly,  and  see 
what  she  can  do!" 

' '  How's  your  hand  ? "  Nelly  said.  Miss  Clay  flexed  the  fingers, 
with  a  dubious  eye. 

"It  hurt  me  some  this  morning,"  she  admitted,  and  she 
added  grimly,  "That  feller  in  the  hall  bedroom  is  going.  Says 
he's  got  to  get  a  room  nearer  where  he  works.  I  says,  I  hope 
you  can  get  it  for  six  dollars  a  week.  That's  all  he  pays — and 
his  food's  worth  that,  let  alone  the  rent!" 

"The  man  with  all  the  fans  up  on  the  wall,"  Nelly  identified 
him.  "Then  that  leaves  you  only  the  Nugents  and  Davy?" 
she  questioned,  sympathetically. 

"That's  all!  And  Joe  Nugent  is  afraid  his  firm  is  going  to  be 
bought  up  right  over  his  head,"  Miss  Clay  admitted.  "I  tell 
you,  Nelly,  I  can't  keep  the  house!" 

Nelly  could  only  look  her  sympathy.  She  had  nothing  to 
suggest,  since  the  last  advertisement  of  "sunny  rooms  in  the 
warm  belt  of  the  Mission,"  had  failed  to  bring  even  a  nibble, 
She  glanced  about  the  kitchen,  a  large,  dark,  dirty  room,  the 
stove  greasy  and  rusted,  the  sink  filled  with  miscellaneous  soiled 
pots  and  china,  a  huddle  of  odds  and  ends  threatening  any 
minute  to  coast  off  the  sink  shelf,  the  table  littered  and  old. 
Everything  looked  forlorn  and  poor;  there  was  neither  the 
effect  of  new  furnishing  in  enamel  ware  and  oilcloth  nor  of  the 
homely  comfortable  disorder  of  the  kitchen  next  door.  Nelly 
was  too  young  to  analyze  the  difference;  she  simply  felt  that 
Miss  Clay  was  dreadfully  unfortunate,  and  that  the  atmosphere 
of  their  house,  if  equally  poor,  was  much  pleasanter. 


80     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Suddenly,  Davy  came  in,  and  when  his  eyes  met  Nelly's, 
tired,  dirty,  discouraged  as  he  was,  a  great  smile  broadened  on 
his  face.  He  dropped  wearily  into  a  chair  and  reached  for  the 
plates  that  had  recently  been  removed  from  the  dinner-table. 
There  was  a  slice  of  bread  in  the  wicker  bread  tray,  and  he 
buttered  it  and  talked  quite  simply  to  Nelly  and  his  aunt,  as 
he  ate  it  in  great  bites. 

"Lord,  sometimes  I  think  we're  fools  not  to  go  back  to  Napa, 
Aunt  Lil!"  he  said,  lazily.  "I  get  thinking  of  old  times  and  the 
teams,  and  the  way  the  steam  rises  up  at  the  stable,  winter 
mornings,  just  as  the  sun  comes  up.     .     .     ." 

"It'd  be  jest  starvation  to  me!"  Miss  Clay  said  firmly. 
"I  don't  propose  to  cook  for  my  sister  Delia" — this  was  Davy's 
mother — "the  rest  of  my  life — if  I  would  get  my  board  out  of 
it!  I  come  away  with  my  eyes  open,  and  I've  got  my  living 
here,  and  my  seat  in  church,  and  my  Sunday  silk,  and  that's 
more  than  a  lot  up  there  has  got.  Your  mother's  a  good  woman, 
but  there's  a  lot  of  women  up  there  that  would  be  well  pleased 
to  see  Lilly  Clay  come  sneaking  home  with  her  tail  between  her 
legs — and  I  ain't  going  to  tickle  them  that  far!" 

Nelly  murmured  something  soothing,  and  Miss  Clay,  who 
was  now  at  the  sink,  throwing  things  about  audibly,  pounced 
upon  her  with  a  swift,  "What  say,  dear?" 

But  Nelly,  whatever  she  had  said,  decided  not  to  repeat  it,  and 
brought  up  the  subject  of  the  eggs.  This  soothed  Miss  Clay 
quickly  by  distracting  her.  She  hadn't  an  egg  in  the  house.  She 
had  meant  to  ask  Davy  to  bring  her  home  some.  Davy,  rising, 
said  he  would  go  for  eggs,  and  Nelly  said  she  would  go  with  him. 

They  walked  down  to  the  corner  and  into  Mission  Street 
silently,  Nelly  somewhat  puzzled.  His  mood  of  last  night  was 
as  absent  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

She  went  with  him,  bareheaded,  into  the  little  corner  store 
that  was  lamp-lighted,  and  that  smelled  of  onions  and  dry 
grains  and  stale  beer.  Nelly  knew  this  shop  through  and 
through;  she  could  have  found  the  spongy  "baker's  bread" 
as  quickly  as  old  man  Cummings  did,  she  knew  with  just  what 
a  gesture  he  would  lift  the  thin  light  wooden  covers  from  the 
cheeses,  and  just  how  thick  a  slice  he  would  press  off  the  "mild 
eastern "  for  a  dime.  There  was  a  row  of  tea  and  coffee  boxes 
neatly  fitted  in  on  the  lowest  shelf — pale-green  tin  boxes  with 
dim  paintings  of  pagodas  and  Japanese  gardens  on  them  above 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     81 

the  words  "Oolong,"  "Java,"  "Souchong,"  and  "Mixed."  The 
sugar  stood  out  on  the  floor,  in  great  barrels  lined  with  dark 
blue  paper,  and  the  string  hung  in  an  iron  filigree  ball  over 
old  Cummings,  head.  Bluish  milk  was  in  a  great  can  with  a 
tight  cup-top,  and  bread  was  loose  on  the  counter.  There  was 
an  odour  of  staleness,  a  certain  universal  fly-speckiness  over  it 
all,  despite  the  great  loops  of  scalloped  and  pinked  yellow  and 
green  paper  that  were  draped  from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  for 
the  especial  distraction  of  flies.  Spiders  had  webbed  the  high 
corners  with  a  dozen  dark,  filmy  folds;  there  were  rat-holes  in 
the  old  wooden  floor,  and  the  sharp  smell  of  rats  and  mice  in 
some  of  the  darker  corners. 

Nelly  watched,  with  untiring  interest,  the  whirl  of  a  great 
red-and-black  wheel  on  the  big  coflFee-grinder,  while  Davy  took 
a  dozen  eggs  from  the  pyramid  on  the  counter  and  put  them  in 
two  bags.  Sugar  and  cheese  old  Cummings  twirled  into  cornu- 
copias, as  he  wrapped  them,  but  eggs  demanded  the  luxury  of 
paper  bags.  He  jerked  open  a  belled  drawer  to  make  change 
for  Davy,  and  nodded  good-night  to  the  young  pair  as  they  went 
out  under  the  stars  again. 

Again,  Davy  was  silent,  and  after  a  few  tentative  remarks, 
and  a  troubled  side-glance,  Nelly  fell  silent,  too.  She  was 
troubled,  in  the  dark.  What  did  he  want  to  be  so  glum  for? 
Nelly  hated  cross  people. 

At  the  cottage  gate  they  stopped. 

"Davy,  that  was  fifteen  cents,  wasn't  it?  I'll  give  it  to  your 
aunt  to-morrow. " 

"No,  you  won't!"  he  said,  quickly,  but  with  the  new  reticence, 
too. 

"Please,  Davy "  She  was  close  to  him  in  the  star- 
light, her  eyes  showing  their  marvellous  light  in  the  soft  gloom; 

"Oh,  my — my  Gosh,"  he  said  bitterly  and  suddenly.  "I 
should  think  I  could  treat  you  to  half-a-dozen  eggs!" 

Nelly  was  bewildered,  but  glad  to  be  talking  at  last. 

"Why,  of  course  you  can  if  you  want  to!"  she  said,  gently. 

David  gave  a  sort  of  groan.  Then,  quite  deliberately,  he 
gathered  her  bag  of  eggs  and  his  together,  and  set  them  down 
on  the  dry  yellow  grass  and  tarweed  that  had  sprung  up  outside 
the  gate,  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  And  suddenly  Nelly  was 
satisfied,  after  all  the  bewilderment  and  longing  of  that  sweet, 
weary,  silent  day. 


82     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Oh,  Nelly,  I  love  you  so — I  love  you  so,"  half  sobbed, 
half  gritted  Davy,  with  his  hungry,  great  kisses,  "and — my 
God!  I'll  never  be  able  to  marry  you — I've  not  got  a  dollar 
in  the  world — my  mother's  got  nothing!  She  and  my  aunt 
would  starve  to  death  if  it  wasn't  for  me!  It's  just  cruel  and 
mean  to  talk  about  it — when  you're  so  sweet — and  so  little — 
and  everyone  is  in  love  with  you !" 

"But  Davy — but  Davy "  whispered  Nelly,  who  was  cry- 
ing, "if  I — if  I  like  you !  " 

Then  their  wet  cheeks  and  their  young  lips  were  together, 
and  they  were  stammering  madness  and  sweetness.  "I  love 
you!"  David  said,  over  and  over.  Nelly  kept  her  soft  little 
head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Davy — Davy "  she  whispered. 

The  summer  stars  wheeled  solemnly  in  their  courses,  and  a 
late,  pale  moon  arose  and  shone  wearily  over  the  humble  little 
scattered  roofs  of  the  Mission  and  the  silent,  bare  slopes  of  the 
surrounding  hills.  With  the  moonlight,  an  optimistic  cock 
crowed,  and  a  distant  dog  barked  and  was  still.  The  wheel 
of  the  Silvas'  windmill  turned  slowly,  creaked;  there  was  a 
splash  of  water. 

But  Nelly  and  Davy  murmured  on,  uncaring,  reiterating 
again  and  again  the  most  amazing  thing  that  had  ever  been  said 
since  the  moon  was  made.     They  loved  each  other. 

"No,  but  you  cant — you  angel!  Nelly,  you  don't  know 
what  you're  saying.  You  know  so  many  men — and  I've  been 
next  door  to  you  for  ten  years!" 

"But  Davy — if  I  do?"  There  was  a  honey  sweetness  in  the 
soft  voice,  it  made  him  want  to  laugh,  it  made  him  want  to  cry, 
he  flung  back  his  head,  flung  out  his  arms,  almost  shouted  in  his 
ecstasy. 

"Why,  but  you're  so  silly,  Davy,"  she  murmured,  with  her 
two  hands  holding  his  coat  lapels  and  his  two  locked  behind 
her  and  the  light  weight  of  her  soft  young  body  against  his. 
"Did  you  remember  to-day — about  last  night?" 

"As  if  I  could  think  of  anything  else,  you  darling!" 

"Didn't  you — didn't  you  think  it  was  sweet?" 

"Sweet!  It  was  the  sweetest  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me 
in  my  life!     All  day  long " 

There  was  no  end  to  it,  no  beginning.  It  was  carried  along 
on  the  current  of  his  passionate  young  kis'ses. 


J 


CHAPTER  V 

OLD  Reuben  Crabtree  and  his  eldest  daughter,  Fanny, 
had  rented  a  small,  bay-windowed  house  in  California 
Street,  with  a  narrow  side-garden,  full  of  calla  lilies, 
standard  roses,  and  fuchsias.  Indoors  was  the  usual  narrow  hall, 
the  double  parlours  to  the  right,  the  dining  room  behind  them, 
crossing  the  house,  with  a  bay-window  on  the  side  garden. 
Upstairs  was  the  old  man's  alcoved  front  room,  Fanny's  room 
over  the  dining  room,  a  sewing  room  between,  in  which  Carra 
slept  in  eternal  vigilance  for  her  master's  call,  and,  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  a  sky-lighted  bathroom  with  a  tin  tub.  The  furni- 
ture was  upholstered  walnut,  with  a  dreadful  old  horsehair  set 
still  lingering  in  inconspicuous  corners  and  a  square  piano  with 
a  defective  rack. 

It  was  the  day  of  conserving:  furniture  was  patched,  re- 
covered, curtains  were  mended,  dresses  were  turned.  In  the 
closet  in  the  dining  room,  Fanny  had  half  her  mother's  Canton 
china  set,  almost  complete,  rarely  seen  or  used.  In  trunks  in 
her  little  attic  she  had  old  clothes,  rolled  into  balls,  heavy  old 
garments  of  her  mother  and  Aunt  Jenny,  and  of  her  own  youth, 
old  hats  and  linen  collars.  On  the  walls  were  dim  prints,  widely, 
framed:  "Welsh  Peasants,"  and  "Franklin  at  the  Court  of 
France,"  and  many  smaller  coloured  pictures,  of  dimpled  little 
girls  showing  bare  arms  and  shoulders  and  holding  lambs  or 
fruit.  There  were  also  dim,  framed  photographs  in  Fanny's 
orderly,  dark,  ugly  bedroom:  one  of  May's  children,  disposed 
artistically  about  a  swing,  in  scallopped  high-buttoned  boots, 
plaid  dresses,  and  saucer  hats  tipped  over  their  flowing  ringlets, 
and  another  of  Fanny's  mother,  a  pallid,flat-breasted  big  woman 
whose  likeness  had  been  enlarged  from  a  daguerreotype  The 
late  Mrs.  Crabtree  was  represented  in  a  flowing  gown  of  striped 
and  scalloped  silk,  a  mass  of  looped  braids  fell  on  her  neck,  her 
arms  were  crossed  upon  a  small  marble  pillar. 

Fanny  rarely  noticed  anything  in  her  room,  unless  it  was  out 

83 


84  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

of  place.  The  rooms  had  a  perpetual  effect  of  neatness,  barren 
order,  close  air.  She  had  a  sharp  eye  for  dust  and  disarrange- 
ment, and  prided  herself  on  her  housekeeping.  Carra,  to  be 
sure,  was  a  little  out  of  Fanny's  province,  because  she  was  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  the  old  man;  even  Fanny's  curiosity 
stopped  short  at  the  delicate  line  that  was  drawn  somewhere 
between  Carra' s  sex  and  her  father's  dependence.  Did  she 
entirely  dress  and  undress  him  ?  Did  she  decide  when  he  was  to 
take  his  medicine,  and  what  weight  of  flannels  were  desirable? 

She  and  May  did  not  know.  They  knew  that  Carra's  wrin- 
kled, pink-lined  hand  rubbed  the  bloodless,  dry  old  back;  they 
knew  that  Carra  ruled  him  to  a  degree  that  they  would  have 
resented  had  they  dared. 

"No,  you  ain't  gwine  get  up  now,  eever!"  they  would  hear 
the  coloured  woman  say,  firmly  if  good-naturedly,  when  old 
Reuben  whined.  "You  lay  there  and  read  you'  paper.  What 
dat  President  you  got  now  doin'  wiv  hisse'f  ?  My  Ian',  he's  a 
stepper!  Stick  you'  laigs  in  dere,  Mist'  Crabtree;  you  sneeze 
once  and  I'm  comin'  after  you  like  you's  no  size  at  all!" 

This  shocking  familiarity  and  disrespect  would  make  May 
flush  and  Fanny  dilate  her  nostrils  and  breathe  deep;  but  what 
could  they  do?  Pa  had  to  have  someone  to  care  for  him,  and 
Carra  certainly  understood  him,  and  he  liked  her.  Perhaps 
while  they  were  tip-toeing  quietly  away  from  the  hallways  to 
which  the  distressing  sounds  of  her  voice  had  penetrated,  his 
door  would  open  suddenly,  and  Carra  would  go  by  them,  with 
one  of  the  endless  pitchers,  buckets,  or  trays  of  her  charge's 
room.  But  Carra,  if  invincible,  was  discreet,  or  perhaps  she  was 
just  indifferent  to  the  younger  women.  Carra  was  well  past 
seventy  herself. 

Sometimes  Fanny,  beating  the  flexible  top  of  her  long  nose 
back  and  forth,  a  sure  sign  of  nervousness,  could  permit  herself 
the  luxury  of  saying  lightly  and  briefly,  in  reference  to  Carra's 
influence  in  her  carefully  ordered  house: 

"Well,  it  won't  be  forever,  you  know!" 

To  which  May's  real  answer  was  an  alert  widening  of  the 
space  about  the  eyes,  although  she  thought  she  answered  in  the 
spoken  words: 

"Dearest  Papa— God  forbid!" 

Neither  wished  him  a  minute's  pain  or  harm,  and  they  truly 
loved  him,  as  healthy  persons  in  the  prime  of  life  may  love  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  85 

aged  and  infirm,  whose  going  will  simplify  their  problems.  They 
knew  he  must  go,  and  they  all  hovered  solicitously  about  him, 
determining,  each  in  her  way,  that  nothing  should  fail  Pa  be- 
cause of  her. 

Fanny  never  had  to  speak  to  Carra  about  the  bedroom  floor, 
of  which  the  mulatto  woman  took  complete  charge.  She  listed 
the  laundry  for  the  Chinese  laundryman  and  put  away  the  clean 
linen  when  it  came  home.  But  she  never  volunteered  for  service 
below  stairs,  and  had  a  habit,  perfectly  maddening  to  Fanny,  of 
disappearing  into  her  room  when  it  might  naturally  have  been 
asked  of  her.  Fanny  was  a  capable  and  even  a  hard  mistress, 
and  she  fretted  over  this  one  great  stumbling-block  in  the  way 
of  perfect  housekeeping.  However,  she  and  May  had  decided 
that  the  matter  was  too  delicate  for  them  to  touch,  and  Fanny 
soothed  herself  with  an  extra  acerbity  where  other  housekeeping 
details  were  concerned. 

She  had  a  blowsy,  rosy,  great  peasant  of  a  girl  named  Maggie 
in  the  kitchen,  and  Maggie's  waking  hours  were  entirely  at 
Fanny's  disposal.  Fanny  went  to  market  in  Polk  Street  every 
morning,  and  came  back  with  her  rather  long,  red  face  paled  by 
summer  heat,  or  bitten  by  winter  chill,  for  a  whole  hour  of 
earnest  direction  to  Maggie.  Fannie  had  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  Maggie  must  needs  delay  all  her  pressing  affairs  to  listen  to 
the  mistress.  There  was  nothing  too  small  to  escape  the  older 
woman's  eye. 

"You  weren't  using  that  broom  on  the  parlour  carpet,  Mag- 
gie ? "  Fanny  might  interrupt  herself  to  say.  "And  that  reminds 
me,  try  to  get  your  steps  and  sidewalk  swept  before  seven — 
I  looked  out  to-day,  and  you  were  practically  the  only  servant 
on  the  block  who  was  so  late.  Now,  about  the  mock  pigeons, 
my  sister  says  they  are  quite  simple.  Try  them,  anyway, 
to-night,  and  bake  Mr.  Crabtree  some  cup-cakes.  You  have 
a  cleaner  apron  than  that,  I  think." 

"Carra  says  that  cake'll  be  the  deat'  of  him,  and  him  pushin' 
eighty!"  Maggie  might  remark  in  her  fresh,  rushing  Irish 
voice.  "Me  uncle,  that  wint  on  the  parish " 

Fanny  was  always  pleasant. 

"Never  mind,  Maggie,  or  we  will  be  forgetting  that  I  am 
the  mistress  here  and  you  the  maid!  Not,"  get  to  your  sweep- 
ing and  then  you  can  dust  before  lunch.  Start  a  good  fire  now, 
for  your  baked  potatoes,  and  get  your  soup-meat  on.     Then  im- 


86     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

mediately  after  lunch  rub  out  those  towels,  and  you  can  rest 
nicely  while  you're  doing  your  silver.  Be  sure  to  scatter  wet 
paper  before  you  sweep.  And  by  the  way,  brush  down  the 
stairs  again,  that  will  only  take  you  a  few  minutes.  What 
do  you  say,  Maggie?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Fanny."  Maggie  would  watch  the  thin,  nervous 
form,  the  flushed  face,  the  bonneted  gray  hair,  with  a  scornful 
eye.  She  knew  that  Fanny  was  not  done,  although  Fanny 
did  not,  and  could  turn  with  quite  natural  spontaneity  to  say: 

"Wash  the  statuettes  some  time  to-day  or  to-morrow,  Maggie. 
And  don't  leave  your  bed  unmade  until  after  lunch.  I  glanced 
into  your  room  yesterday  and  opened  the  window.  It's  just  a 
question  of  habit,  Maggie — get  the  right  habit,  and  then  you'll 
be  happier  all  your  life." 

And  she  would  move  a  few  feet  more,  with  bonnet-strings 
loosened,  and  gloves  taken  off",  to  be  gathered  with  her  shopping- 
bag  and  parasol  or  umbrella  in  her  lean  hand.  But  there  was 
generally  more  to  come. 

"Oh — and  Maggie.  Eat  what  you  wish  at  meal-times,  as 
the  rest  of  us  do,  and  don't  let  me  come  into  the  kitchen  to  find 
you  tasting  this  and  bolting  that.  That's  not  necessary.  Mag- 
gie, are  you  watching  the  time? — it's  almost  eleven. — Brush 
with  the  nap — that's  right." 

And  Fanny  would  sail  upstairs,  to  wrap  her  bonnet  in  tissue- 
paper,  to  lay  her  gloves  in  a  painted  silk  box  that  Esme  had 
made  her,  lettered  "Gloves"  in  a  running  script. 

She  was  religious  and  interested  herself  deeply  in  church 
and  parish  affairs.  Fanny  belonged  to  a  charitable  sewing- 
society  that  met  every  week,  and  her  friends  were  almost  all 
members  of  this  little  group  of  devoted  women.  It  was  a  very 
active  fear  in  her  life  that  her  father  might  die  without  a  return 
to  his  old  boyhood  belief,  and  she  was  courageous  in  approach- 
ing the  old  man  on  the  subject,  and  always  met  any  religious 
argument  with  quick  scorn  and  contemptuous  dismissal. 

With  church  charities,  and  marketing,  her  mornings  went 
rapidly,  but  she  found  afternoons  long,  and  then  would  some- 
times indulge  in  "blues,"  especially  if  she  found  an  interested 
listener.  She  altered  her  dresses,  called  downstairs  to  Maggie 
for  a  hot  iron  2nd  ^e  pressing-board,  and  washed  woolens  with 
sudsy  "Spanish  bark."  Like  almost  all  unmarried  women  of 
means,  Fanny  was  suspicious  of  the  sincerity  of  the  friendships 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  87 

she  made,  and  almost  fanatically  anxious  that  the  world  should 
not  overestimate  her  fortune.  She  never  told  any  one  just  what 
it  was;  it  was  partly  invested  in  the  family  firm,  partly  in  gilt- 
edged  securities,  and  Fanny  spent  only  the  interest  of  it.  She 
knew  that  there  would  be  a  little  more  "some  day,"  and  until 
that  time  she  contented  herself  with  what  she  had  for  pocket- 
money,  and  felt  herself  rich.  To  be  sure,  there  were  expenses 
here  in  the  city  that  she  had  not  foreseen  when  she  so  cheerfully 
transplanted  her  old  father  from  San  Rafael.  Previously,  there 
had  been  one  family  account  at  the  "White  House,"  the  city's 
best  dry-goods  establishment,  on  Kearney  Street,  and  she  and 
May  had  charged  their  purchases  there,  Stephen  comfortably 
paying  the  whole,  or  their  father  paying  it,  they  did  not  know 
which.  But  now  Fanny  perforce  had  a  separate  account,  and 
to  her  annoyed  surprise  her  father  good-naturedly  tossed  her 
the  bills  with  the  observation,  "That's  yours,  Fanny." 

This  had  gone  on  for  three  years  now,  and  Fanny  had  often 
wondered  uneasily  what  May  was  doing.  Who  paid  her  "White 
House"  bill,  the  firm  or  Stephen,  and  how  could  Fanny  find  out? 

Certainly  neither  from  May  nor  her  father;  May  was  as  dis- 
creetly close-mouthed  as  the  old  man  was  wary. 

"I  don't  know  the  half  that  Stephen  does/'  her  father  would 
say,  irritatingly.  "Better  put  on  a  pair  of  pants,  Fanny,  and 
come  down  and  run  things  awhile,  that's  the  notion!"  and  May, 
smiling  encouragingly,  would  say  earnestly,  "Fanny,  I  leave  all 
that  to  Stephen.  I  think  he  admires  that  quality  in  me  more 
than  any  other — just  minding  my  own  business,  as  the  children 
say." 

"I  know,  May,  but  it  just  struck  me  that  if  Crabtree  and 
Company  is  paying  your  bills,"  Fanny  might  counter,  with  thin 
lips  firm,  "it  might  as  well  pay  mine!" 

"Why,  Fan— look  at  Aunt  Jenny's  money!" 

"Yes,  I  know — but  there  wouldn't  be  any  money  to  look  at, 
if  things  went  at  this  rate!"    Fanny   would    always    answer, 
nervously,  beating  the  tip  of  her  nose. 

"Oh,  nonsense — when  the  paper  said  a  comfortable  fortune!" 

"May,  that  makes  me  wild. — What  wicked  nonsense!  I  wish 
people  would  mind  their  own  business!  Doctor  Jerome  came 
here  yesterday,  for  a  window  in  the  church.  'Why,  Doctor,'  I 
said,  'you  have  been  misinformed.  I  am  far  from  being  a  rich 
woman — far  from  it!'" 


88     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well,  Papa  draws  just  what  he  pleases,  anyway!"  It  was 
a  favourite  grievance  of  May's,  for  Stephen  was  on  a  fixed  salary. 

"Well,  but  that  doesn't  help  me — I  tell  you  I  pay  my  own 
bills  now!" 

May  never  rose  to  real  sympathy. 

"I  guess  you  can  afford  it,  Fanny.  Dear  me — when  I  think 
of  myself,  with  four  girls  to  settle!"  And  the  matron's  high 
breast  would  rise  with  a  great  sigh  that  was  half  complacent,  as 
she  thought  of  Esme,  Vicky,  Tina,  and  Louisianna. 

Ten  days  after  the  summer  Sunday  upon  which  Robert  and  his 
wife  had  been  formally  welcomed  back  into  the  family,  Mrs. 
Brewer  came  over  to  the  city,  this  time  bringing  Esme  and 
Louisanna.  She  usually  lunched  with  her  sister  on  shopping 
days,  and  sometimes  brought  a  great  sheaf  of  country  flowers 
to  brighten  the  California  Street  house.  She  and  her  girls  would 
stream  past  Maggie  with  a  call  of  greeting,  to  Fanny  upstairs, 
perhaps  letting  Maggie  draw  her  own  conclusion  from  their 
arrival,  or  perhaps  granting  her  a  kindly:  "How  do,  Maggie! 
Be  sure  you  have  something  nice  for  us;  we're  all  hungry!" 

On  this  occasion,  while  Maggie  poured  coal  on  her  fire,  tore 
off  her  apron,  and  flew  to  the  grocery,  the  Brewers  went  up- 
stairs, and  there  was  kissing.  Then  Esme  drifted  downstairs  to 
the  piano,  and  Louisianna  stood  silently  watching  the  street 
from  her  aunt's  bedroom  window.     The  older  women  chattered. 

"And  how  does  Bertie  like  his  job?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  he's  so  conscientious!  Unless  he  gets  his 
breakfast  on  the  stroke  of  seven,  poor  Lottie  gets  into  trouble! 
But" —  and  Mrs.  Brewer  fixed  her  sister  with  an  anxious  eye — 
"but  hasn't  Pa  said  anything  about  him?" 

"Pa  spoke  of  that  dreadful  oversight  of  the  letter  to  China," 
Fanny  remembered.     "Wasn't  that  too  bad!" 

This  was  Bertie's  first  mistake,  and  his  mother  winced.  He 
had  been  given  an  invoice  to  deliver  to  an  outbound  ship,  in 
person,  but  upon  leaving  the  office  had  met  a  friend,  had 
drifted  down  to  his  own  ferry-boat,  and  had  been  half-way 
home  before  he  remembered  the  important  document  in  his 
pocket.  Then  it  had  seemed  good  to  the  rather  sobered  Bertie 
to  mail  the  letter  at  Saucelito  hoping  that,  in  its  twelve  hours  of 
grace,  it  would  still  reach  the  vessel.  But  the  envelope  he  so 
hastily  jammed  into  the  mail  was  unstamped  and  turned  up 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     89 

at  the  office  of  Crabtree  and  Company  late  the  following  after- 
noon, when  the  oriental  vessel  was  some  hundred  miles  out  to  sea. 

Bertie  had  been  only  ashamed  and  frightened  at  this  slip, 
but  his  mother  had  suffered  acutely.  It  was  to  her  a  personal 
matter,  and  to  have  Bertie's  father  sore  over  the  delayed  in- 
voice and  the  stupidity,  and  angry  at  the  boy,  caused  her  real 
pain.  She  was  now  trying  to  dwell  upon  wiser  things  that 
Bertie  had  done,  trying  to  win  the  silent  Stephen  to  recognition 
of  Bertie's  penitence  and  amendment. 

"Fanny,"  she  said,  changing  the  subject  suddenly,  "did 
Tina  say  anything  to  you  about  this  young  clergyman — this 
Mr.  Yelland?" 

Fanny  glanced  at  Louisianna's  slender  back,  elevated  her  eye- 
brows. 

"Of  the  wonderful  work  he  has  been  doing  with  the  Sunday- 
school  class,  I  mean!"  Mrs.  Brewer  corrected  herself  hastily, 
attempting  to  recover  lost  ground.  Louisianna's  back  did  not 
move,  but  could  her  elders  have  seen  her  face,  they  would  have 
noted  upon  it  an  expression  of  calm  scorn. 

"No,  I  didn't  hear  of  that!"  Fanny  said  lightly.  /'Go 
uown  and  tell  Esme  to  play  'White  Wings,'  Baby,"  she  inter- 
rupted herself  to  say  carelessly.  Louisianna,  with  her  inscrut- 
able innocent  smile,  departed,  and  the  sisters  upstairs  went 
comfortably  into  confidences. 

"My  dear,  he's  really  a  delightful  young  fellow,  in  spite  of  the 
glasses,"  said  May,  "and  truly — I  think  the  child's  touched!" 

Fanny,  ripping  the  body  seams  of  a  thickly  lined  velvet  waist, 
snapped  the  settled  dust  from  them  with  thin  red  fingers. 

"I  thought  it  was  just  nonsense,  May,"  she  said,  doubtfully. 

"Well,  yesterday  he  stopped  at  the  house  with  some  hymn- 
books,  and  he  did  certainly  look  foolish  when  I  said  that  Tina 
was  walking — which  she  and  Esme  most  unfortunately  were!" 

"I  suppose  I  feel  it  a  pity — on  account  of  the  small  salary," 
Fanny  said,  slowly.  "I  suppose  there's  no  question  that  he's 
interested?" 

"Not  the  slightest ! "  Mrs.  Brewer  said  eagerly.  "Why  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Ayers  only  a  few  days  ago  that  he  believed  in  celibacy 
for  the  clergy — poor  lamb!  You  know  they  never  say  that 
until  they're  in  love.  It  seemed  to  me  an  indication  of  what 
is  in  his  mind.  I  wish — oh,  I  do  wish  we  could  have  a  garden 
wedding!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

VICKY  love,"  said  her  mother,  entering  the  family  din- 
ing room  on  a  sober  silent  morning  in  early  November, 
"do  you  want  to  do  Mama  a  real  favour?" 
Victoria,  who  was  flushed  from  the  performance  of  a  weekly 
duty — the  roasting  of  some  five  pounds  of  green  coffee  over  a 
kerosene  stove — closed  her  book,  Miss  Carey's  innocuous  "Uncle 
Max,"  and  eyed  her  mother  with  a  mixture  of  amiability  and 
distrust. 

"I  want  somebody  to  go  up  and  call  on  the  Tasheiras,"  Mrs. 
Brewer  said  pathetically,  "really  it  should  be  done!  I  know 
your  father  feels  so.  We  turn  our  cows  out  there  in  their  range 
whenever  they  go  dry,  and  they've  been  so  obliging  about 

buying  the  calves " 

Victoria's  brow  clouded,  as  indeed  her  mother  had  known 
it  would.  The  Misses  Tasheira,  four  elderly  Spanish  spinsters, 
lived  on  the  remains  of  a  great  Spanish  crown  grant,  which  was 
some  six  miles  away.  Their  parents,  sheep-farmers  in  the  early 
part  of  the  century,  had  bequeathed  them  half  the  county,  and 
by  judicious  sales  of  strips  of  woodland  here  and  pasture  there, 
they  had  lived  in  extreme  comfort  ever  since.  They  still  carried 
on  a  somewhat  mismanaged  dairy  and  cattle-raising  business, 
which  supported  a  small  colony  of  Spanish,  Mexican,  Portu- 
guese, and  Indian  half-  and  quarter-breeds,  in  an  inconspicuous 
corner  of  the  estate,  and  had  been  most  amiable  in  permitting 
the  Crabtree  and  Brewer  families  to  turn  in  their  own  Jersey 
cows  with  the  Tasheira  half-wild  Durham  stock,  whenever  it  was 
convenient. 

The  sisters  lived,  almost  without  moving,  in  the  cool  lower  I 
rooms  of  their  big  wooden  hacienda,  embroidering,  cooking  rich 
little  eggy  cakes  and  delicious  rich  meat  sauces,  playing  a  little 
on  their  old  piano,  and  quarrelling  and  laughing  with  their 
Spanish  women  servants,  who  provided  a  human  element  by 
their  constant  marrying,  child-bearing,  and  fighting,  and  by 

90 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     91 

their  rising  families.  The  Brewer  girls  hated  the  occasional 
necessity  of  civilities,  and  Victoria,  on  this  dull  and  dreamy 
Saturday,  instinctively  sought  escape. 

"But  why  to-day,  Mama?"  she  began,  looking  out  at  the 
calm,  sunless  garden,  yellowed  and  thinned,  and  at  the  blue 
mountains  that  were  steeped  in  mournful  quiet.  Dampness 
glistened  on  the  shabby  cosmos  and  chrysanthemums  outside 
the  dining-room  windows,  the  trees  were  motionless,  chickens 
clucked  in  tentative  undertone,  pigeons  walked  busily  along 
the  stable  yard  fence.     The  sky  was  gray  and  low. 

"Well,  dearie,  I  suppose  Mama  need  not  give  reasons!" 
her  mother  began  briskly.  "I  really  think  the  walk  would 
do  you  good,"  she  added,  invitingly. 

"Didn't  you  want  us  to  drive?"  Victoria  asked,  still  un- 
yielding. 

"Just  as  you  like,  dear!  Esme  is  in  town  with  Aunt  Fanny, 
so  Lou  would  go  with  you.  And  you  may  either  walk,  in  which 
case  I  know  the  Senoritas  will  send  you  home  with  the  team,  or 
you  may  have  either  of  the  horses!" 

"We  could  take  both  horses  and  ride?"  Victoria  said, 
brightening.     But  her  mother  hesitated. 

"Well,  dearie — this  is  Bertie's  only  day  home,  you  know. 
He'll  be  home  about  three,  and  he  does  so  like  a  gallop,  dear 
boy!" 

"You  don't  make  Bertie  go  with  us,"  Victoria  observed 
resentfully. 

"Certainly  not — the  ladies  bore  him  to  death!"  his  mother 
said  quickly.  "You  are  not  very  generous  to  your  brother, 
now  that  he  is  working  so  hard,"  she  said,  warmly.  Victoria 
laughed  and  kissed  her  mother,  even  while  she  kept  revolving 
the  little  barrel  that  held  the  now  rapidly  roasting  and  ex- 
tremely odorous  coffee.  The  dining  room  was  very  warm, 
and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  Victoria  that  it  would  be  good  to 
get  out  into  the  cool  air  and  tramp  over  the  damp  roads  and 
the  matted  yellow  leaves. 

"All  right,  Mama!"  she  said  good-naturedly.  "We'll  go, 
and  have  port  wine  and  cake,  and  bring  home  more  junk  in  the 
way  of  sweet  apples  and  drawn-work  and  butter  and  stuff  than 
you  can  shake  a  stick  at!" 

"You're  such  a  good  child,  Vicky!"  said  her  mother.  Vic- 
toria did  not  understand  why  she  looked  just  a  trifle  confused 


92  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

as  Tina  came  in  from  the  kitchen.  Tina's  face  was  flushed,  too, 
and  she  looked  a  little  self-conscious.  She  had  a  blue  plate  in 
her  hand,  and  on  the  plate  was  smoking  a  small  raisin  cake. 
Mrs.  Brewer  took  the  cake,  tasted  it,  and  put  the  remainder 
against  Victoria's  willing  mouth.  "That's  delicious,  dear! 
the  older  woman  said,  proudly.  ,  .    „  ~.  . ,      «^ri 

"The  first  lot  were  a  little  too  thin,  Iina  said.  lney 
baked  beautifully,  but  they  didn't  come  out  of  the  pans.  So 
Lottie  suggested  that  I  put  in  a  little  more  flour,  and  that  made 
them  perfect,  imagine." 

"We'll  eat  the  broken  ones  for  lunch,  and  save  the  good  ones 
for  somebody— at  tea!"  Mrs.  Brewer  settled  it  merrily,  as 
she  and  her  third  daughter  returned  to  the  kitchen;  Victoria  s 
eyes  widened  intelligently;  Vernon  Yelland  was  going  to  call, 
and  the  coast  must  be  clear  for  Tina.       .  t      .  „ 

Left  alone  again,  with  the  sweet,  sickening  smell  ot  the 
hot  coffee,  and  her  own  thoughts,  she  thought  that  she  would 
wear  her  old  blue  dress  this  afternoon,  she  thought  of  Davy 
Dudley,  who  might  be  coming  to  San  Rafael  with  Nelly,  if  the 
day  was  pleasant.  Victoria  had  pondered  much  upon  Davy, 
during  these  weeks  in  which  she  had  not  seen  him,  and  an 
audacious— almost  an  awful— resolve  was  forming  in  her  heart. 
She  was  wondering  if  there  had  ever  been  such  a  thing  in  the 
world  as  a  girl— a  young  lady— proposing  marriage  to  a  young 
man?  But  Vicky  did  not  put  it  as  marriage;  her  thoughts  did 
not  go  so  far.  She  thought  merely  of  an  engagement,  and  the 
young  man  of  whom  she  thought  in  this  connection  was  Davy 

Dudley.  .  -  •         ,  i  j 

Victoria  was  one  of  four  sisters,  all  marriageable  now,  and 
there  was  no  future  for  her  except  marriage.  She  had  talked 
idly  of  nursing,  and  she  had  often  dreamed  shocking  dreams 
of  the  stage,  but  the  innocent  first  had  been  discouraged  as 
firmly  as  the  reprehensible  second  would  have  been,  and  now 
she  knew  that  she  must  follow  the  usual  course.  Esme  would 
soon  be  twenty-five,  a  hopeless  age,  Victoria  secretly  thought, 
and  she  herself  was  almost  twenty-three.  Tina  might  or  might 
not  marry  Vernon  Yelland.  Louisianna  was  of  course  still 
very  much  in  the  background. 

Victoria  Brewer  naturally  thought  of  herself  as  a  desirable 
wife  for  a  poor  man.  She  was  the  daughter  of  prosperous 
parents,  whose  home  was  one  of  the  most  hospitable  in  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  93 

county,  and  she  was  pretty,  clever,  well-educated,  and  talented. 
David  Dudley  was  poor,  a  country  boy,  shy,  ambitious,  and 
obscure.  He  liked  Victoria,  and  he  was  almost  awed  at  the 
grandeur  of  Victoria's  environment,  she  knew  that.  Then  he 
was  big,  kind,  handsome,  and  above  all — if  her  little  plan  suc- 
ceeded— she  would  be  married,  she  would  have  money  troubles, 
perhaps,  but  Papa  would  help  out,  and  she  would  have  the  ex- 
quisite pleasure  of  coming  to  Sunday  lunch  in  the  old  home, 
'our  married  daughter." 

Since  the  Sunday  upon  which  she  had  more  or  less  gained 
his  confidence,  Victoria  had  thought  so  much  of  Davy  that 
she  was  by  this  time  quite  convinced  that  he  had  also;  been 
thinking  of  her.  Aunt  Lucy  was  of  course  desperately  op- 
posed to  his  courtship  of  Nelly,  and  Victoria  had  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  had  continued  in  it. 

"He  may  not  be  good  enough  for  Nelly,"  Victoria  mused, 
laughing  to  herself,  "but  he  is  good  enough  for  me!"  And 
she  thought,  with  a  proud  humility,  of  a  good  man's  surprise 
when  a  woman  far  above  him  stoops  to  give  him  more  than 
he  dares  ask.  He  had  a  mother,  she  reflected,  a  good  country- 
woman who  would  raise  her  hands  in  amazement  at  Davy's 
prize ! 

All  this  did  not  prevent  Victoria  from  finishing  the  coffee 
roasting  and  from  carrying  the  ungainly  roaster  into  the  kit- 
chen, where  the  hot,  rich  brown  grains  were  poured  into  their 
tin.  It  did  not  prevent  the  girl  from  making  herself  very 
pretty  in  the  old  blue  dress  and  fresh  frills  before  she  and 
Louisianna  started  forth,  at  about  two  o'clock,  for  their  distant 
call.  The  day  was  still  soft  and  sunless,  but  the  yellow  leaves 
lent  their  own  odd  metallic  light  to  the  wide,  little  used  road- 
way, and  the  girls  locked  hands  and  chattered  for  sheer  light- 
ness of  heart,  as  they  got  into  a  good,  steady  stride. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  turn  out  of  the  village  and  up 
toward  the  hills,  they  encountered  Nelly  with  Davy  Dudley. 
The  two  explained  that  they  had  just  arrived  on  the  train  and 
were  bound  for  the  Brewer  mansion. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  a  trifle  off  the  direct  road,  but 

then  it  was  a  sweet  afternoon,  silent  and  fragrant,  and  neither 

Victoria  nor  Louisianna  suspected  the  truth:  that  Davy  had 

J  been  begging  Nelly,  since  they  were  so  little  alone,  to  walk  with 

Ihim  before  /paying  their  call.     He  was  sorry  to  have  their  soli- 


94     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tude  ended,  but  he  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  grave  Louisianna 
and  the  suddenly  flushed  Victoria,  and  they  all  went  gaily  on 
together. 

"If  you  want  to  walk,  "  urged  Victoria,  "why  it's  a  per- 
fectly wonderful  walk!  And  the  old  Senoritas  always  give  us 
oodles  to  eat,  and  its  more  fun — poking  about  the  ranch !  Come 
on,  Davy,  it's  right  along  the  beach  part  of  the  way,  perfectly 
lovely,  and  there's  nothing  to  do  at  home!  Do,  Nelly,  and 
then  we'll  go  back  to  our  house  for  supper,  and  you  stay  over- 
night.    Davy  can  take  the  ten  o'clock!" 

Davy  now  began  to  urge  this  celestial  plan,  too,  and  Lou, 
a  girl  of  few  words,  linked  her  arm  in  Nelly's  and  began, 
slowly: 

"Listen,  Nelly— -" 

"Oh,  say,  listen!"  burst  in  Victoria  excitedly,  linking  herself 
on  her  cousin's  free  arm,  and  bubbling  with  the  news,  "Tina 
was  making  cup-cakes  this  morning,  and  my  dear — yes!  dressed 
in  the  new  challis  this  afternoon,  and  when  I  went  into  the 
parlour  she  was  putting  the  music  she  plays  best  on  top — yes! 
and  what  do  you  s'pose — of  course,  our  dearly  beloved  brother 
Yelland  is  coming  to  tea — if  you  please!  and  Mama  shunting 
poor  Lou  and  me  out  of  the  way — isn't  it  simply  killing!" 

"No!"  exclaimed  Nelly,  in  full  delicious  enjoyment  of  the 
gossip.     "Did  you  ever!     Does  she  like  him?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  likes  him  or  not,"  said  Victoria, 
with  a  casual  air  intended  to  impress  Davy,  and  saying  what 
she  would  have  liked  to  believe,  "but  he  likes  her!" 

This  was  wonderful.  Their  arms  locked,  the  three  girls 
took  the  rising  grade  bravely,  giggling,  stumbling,  and  chatter- 
ing delightedly  over  this  new  idea.  The  exercise  brought  all 
their  spirits  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  when  they  reached  a 
fence  and  needed  Davy's  help,  he  looked  at  the  maddeningly 
dear  little  figure  in  the  shabby  blue  velvet  dress,  with  fair 
hair  curling  itself  up  against  the  blue  velvet  toque,  and  told 
himself  that  after  all  she  had  tacitly  promised  herself  to  him, 
she  had  let  him  kiss  her — and  became  suddenly  the  gayest  of 
them  all.  They  descended  a  slope  to  a  line  of  shore,  and  now 
they  could  see  the  Tasheira  ranch,  still  far  away,  under  a 
broad  band  of  eucalyptus  trees  that  crossed  the  bare  hill. 

"Ah,  there,  my  size!"  shouted  a  cheerful  voice  suddenly, 
and  Rudy  Sessions  rose  suddenly  up  before  them.     The  girls 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     95 

screamed,  and  Davy  Dudley's  simple  heart  went  down — down — 
down,  as  they  greeted  him.  He  had  a  camera  in  his  hands,  and 
confessed  himself  devoted  to  the  new  fad.  Victoria's  spirits 
rose  almost  to  hysteria  as  he  posed  her  for  a  trial  picture. 
This  was  life!  She  had  never  had  her  picture  taken  by  an 
amateur  before.  Then  he  took  Nelly  looking  bashfully  down, 
with  Davy  leaning  at  her  ear,  and  said  he  should  call  that 
"The  Proposal,"  and  then  he  took  the  Brewer  girls  on  a  stile, 
making  them  laugh  as  he  said  he  was  going  to  write  under 
this  picture,  "The  Toll  Gate."  Finally  they  used  the  last 
plate  on  a  picture  of  Victoria  tying  her  handkerchief  about 
Rudy's  arm,  in  the  immortal  attitude  of  "The  Huguenots." 
Victoria  was  by  now  at  her  gayest  and  best,  her  tongue  out- 
flying  them  all,  her  laughter  irresistible.  She  invited  Rudy 
to  join  them  on  their  pious  mission,  and  Davy  knew,  from  the 
instant  he  saw  the  other  man,  that  Rudy  would  accept.  Pres- 
ently they  were  all  swinging  along  the  road  again,  Rudy  beside 
Victoria,  Louisianna  following  with  Davy  and  Nelly.  They 
stopped  like  children,  to  comment  on  ducks,  on  a  crane,  or 
turtles  and  frogs  by  the  road.  Cottontails  sprang  up  and  fled 
before  them,  and  Davy  told  them  that  once  on  these  hills  he 
had  started  a  little  red  fox,  who  kept  the  road  gallantly  ahead 
of  him  for  a  mile  or  two. 

"You  ride,  Dudley?"  young  Sessions  asked,  with  a  worldly 
air.  But  Davy  said  no,  he  had  been  sent  down  by  his  father 
to  drive  two  draft  horses  up  from  San  Francisco  to  Marysville, 
some  three  years  ago.  Louisianna  glanced  quickly  at  Rudy,  to 
see  what  effect  this  would  have  on  him;  Nelly  flushed  but 
Victoria  gave  her  chosen  knight  a  proud  glance. 

The  Tasheira  ranch  house  was  almost  as  hideous  as  human 
hands  could  make  it — a  big,  square,  barn-like  dwelling,  with 
windows  and  doors  set  geometrically  across  its  cheaply  painted 
white  facade.  About  the  house  stood  the  towering  eucalyptus 
trees,  peppers,  masses  of  silvery-white  pampas  grass,  and 
several  weeping-willows,  draping,  at  this  season,  shabby  and 
bared  whips  in  the  sober  air.  Under  the  trees  was  an  over- 
grown garden,  and  hundreds  of  white  chickens  pecked  between 
the  great  bushes  of  the  roses  and  the  rank  masses  of  bridal- 
wreath,  syringa,  and  lemon  verbena.  What  the  Seiioritas 
called  their  "Japanese  wistaria"  climbed  over  a  trellis,  and 
other  great  trellises  and  arbours  bore  passion- vines  and  grape- 


96  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

vines,  the  withered  and  yellowed  foliage  of  the  latter  thinned 
now  to  show  black  and  greenish-yellow  bunches  of  fruit.  No 
foliage  softened  the  ugly  outlines  of  the  house,  and  there  was 
hardly  an  attempt  at  a  path  among  the  scattered  shrubs  and 
bushes  of  the  garden.  Yet  there  was  a  certain  curious  effect 
of  spaciousness  and  even  elegance  in  the  forlorn  bigness  of  the 
bare  house  and  wide  garden,  and  of  this  the  Senoritas  were  all 
still  conscious.  These  qualities  were  entirely  lacking  in  the  old 
casa,  which  stood,  like  a  shy  old  mother,  behind  the  preten- 
tious new  house,  and  was  quite  buried  in  old  woody  vines. 
Under  the  pink,  pipe-tiled  roof,  and  between  the  thick  adobe 
walls  of  the  casa,  all  the  Senoritas,  and  a  troop  of  little 
sisters  and  brothers,  long  dead,  had  been  born,  but  now  the 
building  was  used  for  servants,  and  the  storage  of  kitchen 
grain,  and  the  ripening  of  fruit,  with  an  occasional  bitch, 
with  appealing  eyes,  littering  on  the  odorous  heaps  of  empty 
sacks,  or  a  half-wild  cat  glaring  down  from  some  lofty  hand- 
hewn  rafter  where  she  had  precariously  brought  kittens  into 
the  world.  In  earlier  days,  Vicky  and  Bertie  Brewer  had 
sometimes  found  a  limp,  damp,  panting  lamb  here,  fighting 
with  closed  eyes  for  the  unknown  thing  called  life,  and  Vic- 
toria at  least  would  never  forget  the  ecstatic  day  in  which  an 
old  shoe  rendered  up  half  a  dozen  tiny,  blind,  pink  mice,  couched 
in  a  litter  of  warm  soft  nibbled  paper. 

Cows  were  filing  down  from  the  ridged  hillsides  to-day,  al- 
though it  was  but  three  o'clock,  and  milking  was  not  until 
four.  But  the  herbage  was  poor,  and  the  day  cool,  and  there 
was  always  bran  mash  slopped  into  the  mangers  of  the  milking 
shed,  and  hence  the  silent  red  herd  gathered  and  stood  waiting 
in  the  churned  deep  mud  of  the  barnyard,  with  only  an  oc- 
casional brazen  protest  against  delay. 

The  young  people  eyed  this  barnyard  dubiously;  it  lay 
straight  across  the  short  cut  they  had  chosen  to  take,  and  it 
seemed  impassable.  To  Nelly  the  red  cattle  were  a  menace, 
but  the  boys  took  these  quite  for  granted,  and  were  far  more  con- 
cerned for  the  fate  of  the  ladies'  boots.  Finally,  they  skirted 
the  yard  safely  by  climbing  on  the  first  rung  of  the  fence  and 
edging  their  way  along  clinging  to  the  top  rail  with  weakening 
interruptions  of  helpless  laughter.  On  one  side  were  the 
watching  cows  and  the  pitted  black  mud;  on  the  other,  a 
rising  meadow,  suspiciously  green  in  all  the  burned  brown  land, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     97 

and  apt  to  be  marshy.  Davy  went  first,  then  Victoria,  then 
Rudy,  with  a  gallant  backward-held  hand  for  Nelly.  Louisi- 
anna,  who  had  dainty  little  notions  of  her  own,  preferred  to 
make  a  long  detour  by  the  field,  and  was  to  be  seen  serenely 
waving  back  a  puzzled,  but  amiable,  red  bull,  as  she  came  along. 

Presently  they  were  all  laughing  and  shaking  themselves 
into  shape,  in  the  garden,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  delighted 
Seiioritas  were  welcoming  them  into  the  large  hall  that  smelled 
of  plaster  and  damp  on  this  sunless  day.  It  was  a  bare  hall, 
running  straight  through  the  house,  extremely  high,  and  fur- 
nished only  by  a  stairway,  which  was  reversed  and  began  far 
back.  The  hall  was  flanked  by  large,  bare  rooms,  in  which 
the  old  pieces  of  horsehair  and  walnut  furniture  had  an  oddly 
unaccustomed  effect,  even  after  forty  years.  The  pictures 
were  almost  all  religious,  and  there  were  little  shells  filled  with 
sponges  soaked  with  holy-water  at  all  the  doors.  Large 
wooden  mantels,  painted  white,  symmetrically  broke  the  walls 
opposite  the  entrance  doors,  the  iron  grates  were  small,  but 
the  visitors  to-day  were  delighted  to  find,  in  the  large  back 
room  that  matched  the  dining-room,  a  comfortably  warmed 
atmosphere  and  a  coal  fire. 

The  four  oily-faced,  stout,  brown  old  women  were  more  than 
ordinarily  delighted  with  their  callers.  Miss  Refugio  kissed 
Victoria,  who  was  a  favourite,  and  Miss  'Ception  poured  out  a 
hospitable  flood  of  Spanish  to  a  maid,  which  resulted  in  im- 
mediate refreshments.  To  be  sure,  they  caused  the  light- 
hearted  girls  a  spasm  of  laughter  by  confusing  Rudy  with 
Bertie,  and  Davy  with  some  mythical  husband,  but  their 
hostess'  own  manner  and  the  undercurrent  of  Spanish  chatter 
remained  equable  and  good-natured. 

They  were  all  in  the  sixties,  but  there  was  not  a  thread  of 
gray  in  the  heavy,  plainly  dressed  hair.  Miss  Lupita,  the 
youngest,  indeed  retained  some  of  the  vivacity  of  youth,  her 

!thin  lips  were  red,  in  a  parchment-brown  face,  and  her  eye- 
brows were  cut  from  black  court-plaster  each  morning,  and 
pasted  neatly  over  her  bright  black  eyes.  Miss  Lupita  drove 
them  all  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  drove  the  meanest  and  the 
most  "bronco"  horses  ever  seen  in  those  regions,  she  also 
rode  spirited  ponies,  and  the  Brewer  girls  had  seen  her  thrown, 
and  seen  her  spring  up  with  the  reins  still  in  her  hands,  her  old 
habit  muddy,  her  eyes  blazing  with  fury,  and  herself  more 


98     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

than  a  match  for  her  mount  or  for  ten  horses.  There  was 
reason  to  believe  that  when  the  Senoritas  quarrelled,  their 
old  servants  locked  themselves  in  the  casa  and  lighted 
candles  before  the  statue  of  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe.  On 
the  thick,  leathery  throat  of  Miss  Yolanda,  now  the  fattest 
and  most  stolid  of  them  all,  under  the  greasy  twist  of  coral 
beads,  might  still  be  glimpsed  an  old  white  weal,  the  scar,  almost 
half  a  century  old,  of  a  terrible  day  of  love  that  was  choked  with 
jealousy  and  passion,  and  laughed  at,  and  left  alone. 

But  Miss  Yolanda  laughed  more  than  any  of  them  now,  and 
enjoyed  her  meals  with  twice  the  gusto  of  those  old  days. 
'Ception,  the  oldest,  was  the  only  one  of  the  sisters  who  showed 
any  real  Castilian  formality,  but  even  'Ception  unbent  to-day. 

It  appeared  that  a  great-niece  was  visiting  them  from  Buenos 
Aires. — "It  must  be  delicious  there!  I've  always  wanted  to 
go  there!"  Victoria  interpolated  enthusiastically.  The  speaker, 
Senorita  'Ception,  was  disconcerted  for  a  second,  smiled  po- 
litely and  inquiringly,  and  interrupted  herself  to  say,  "You 
'ave  be  there?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Victoria  encouragingly,  "I  haven't  been 
there,  but  I  hope  to  go  /"  She  thought  vaguely  of  Buenos  Aires 
as  an  island  off  the  south  coast  of  Spain — or  maybe  it  was 

Central   America ?     "Papa    corresponds    with    a    firm    in 

Java "   she   remembered    brilliantly.     But    Miss    'Ception 

did  not  grasp  this  and  went  back  to  her  original  theme. 

It  appeared  that  the  Senoritas  had  had  a  brother,  now  dead, 
who  had  left  a  son  and  daughter  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  daugh- 
ter had  married]  and  died,  too,  leaving  a  daughter  in  her  place. 
This  orphan  girl,  the  Senoritas'  nephew  had  sent  to  them  in 
California,  for  schooling  in  the  Mission  Dolores  Convent. 

"She  'ave  thirteen  year  hold,  and  she  will  be  very  rich, 
from  her  mama's  brother,  my  nephew,  and  she  take  a — she 
take  a  lover — oh,  she  pretty  girl,  dance  and  sing,  and  her  papa 
don'  like  that!"  explained  the  eldest  of  her  great-aunts,  smiling. 
A  moment  later  Miss  Lola  Espinosa  came  in. 

The  little  Argentinian  was  extremely  small,  and  rather  too 
sharp  and  lean  for  beauty.  Her  thick  straight  braid  was  very 
black,  her  oval  eyes  black,  her  mouth  too  big,  and  her  colour 
high  on  dark  cheeks.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  eager,  pre- 
cocious manner,  and  amused  them  all  with  her  quick  overtures 
of  friendship,  her  broken  English,  her  indiscreet  confidences. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  99 

They  were  going  to  shut  her  up  like  a  bad  man  that  had  killed 
some  other  man,  she  said,  because  she  had  eyes  in  her  head  and 
could  not  help  but  see  the  young  men,  but  she  didn't  care,  she 
was  going  to  practise  the  scales,  and  learn  to  embroider  the 
strawberries  so  beautifully  that  her  Tia  Refugia,  to  whose 
smiling  face  she  here  gave  a  passionate  kiss,  would  eat  them! 
"She's  cute,  but  she  knows  it!"  was  Victoria's  dark  thought. 
But  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughing  and  an  immediate 
understanding  among  the  young  persons,  and  presently  the 
cheering  suggestion  that  they  all  stay  to  supper.  This  was 
rather  a  surprise  to  the  visitors,  and  they  eyed  each  other 
dubiously.  Nelly's  first  polite  impulse  to  imply  that  perhaps 
there  wasn't  enough  never  got  so  far  as  words,  and  a  vague  con- 

i  fidence  that  Victoria  meditated  to  the  effect  that  Rudy  Sessions 
was  almost  a  stranger,  and  that  Davy  needn't  necessarily  be  in- 
cluded, also  was  obviously  unsuitable.     So  the  callers  swiftly 

1  allowed  themselves  to  be  persuaded,  and,  feeling  a  little  stiff 
and  strange,  heard  Tony,  who  drove  the  milk  wagon,  directed 
in  an  avalanche  of  Spanish  to  inform  the  Senora  Brewer  of  her 

1  daughters'  whereabouts. 

"Mama  can't  possibly  object,"  thought  Victoria,  feeling  a 

,  pleasurable  excitement  stir  within  her,  a  delicious  thrill  that 
she  only  felt  when  twilight  found  her  away  from  home. 

"Isn't  this  nobby?"  said  young  Sessions  to  Victoria,  evi- 
dently sharing  the  emotion,  as  Lola  danced  joyfully,  and  put  her 
arm  about  Louisi anna's  waist,  with  the  suggestion  that  they 
all  make  a  little  pasear. 

"And  we  ought  to  make  all  these  bad,  smelling  dogs  go 
Walking,  too,  for  they  are  so  fat!"  said  naughty  little  Lola. 
But  her  aunts  protested;  their  little  dogs — there  were  six  in 
the  sitting-room — were  delicate,  and  the  old  mistresses  were 
used  to  the  laziness  and  the  smell.  Two  of  the  dogs  were  mere 
dirty  gray-brown  masses  of  tangled  hair,  out  of  which  rheumy 
red  eyes  looked  suspiciously  and  pettishly;  one  was  Senorita 
Refugio's  lean  spaniel,  with  two  puppies  dragging  at  her  mis- 
shapen body,  and  the  other  was  Senorita  'Ception's  big  hair- 
less Mexican  dog,  who  had  some  dry  and  hideous  skin  affliction 
upon  his  steel  blue  hide. 

There  were  other  dogs  outside,  however,  who  leaped  joyfully 
to  join  the  walk:  ragged,  half-savage  dogs,  who  rolled  and 
snapped  at  each  other,  and  scrambled  up  the  banks  that  rose  on 


ioo    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

each  side  of  the  rough  roads.  The  two  youngest  girls  walked 
ahead,  then  came  Rudy  with  Nelly,  and  lastly  Victoria  and 
David. 

Victoria's  colour  was  high,  and  her  eyes  sparkling;  the  dull 
duty  call  had  turned  out  delightfully,  all  this  was  so  much  waste 
time,  perhaps,  inasmuch  as  both  the  young  men  were  in  love 
with  Nelly,  and  the  Tasheiras  sufficiently  unlike  the  people 
one  knew  to  be  negligible  factors  in  her  life,  yet  it  was  diverting. 
And  then  to-morrow  was  Sunday,  and  she  was  to  go  home  with 
Nelly  on  Monday  to  spend  the  night,  a  rare  event  and  an 
exciting  one,  for  they  would  undoubtedly  be  sent  into  Mission 
Street  for  bread  or  chops,  and  they  would  stop  at  all  the  shop 
windows  and  have  adventures. 

So  this  was  all  sheer  gain,  and  especially  was  it  unexpectedly 
interesting  to  have  Davy  beside  her. 

"I  should  think  every  man  who  saw  her  would  fall  in  love 
with  her!"  said  Victoria,  of  Lola,  as  a  feeler. 

"Well,  as  near  as  I  can  see,  they  do!"  Davy  returned  gloom- 
ily, of  Nelly. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Victoria  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy  of 
the  Argentinian  heiress. 

"Evidently  Sessions  is!"  Davy  said,  briefly  and  bitterly. 

"Oh,  you  mean  Nelly!" 

He  smiled. 

"Did  you  think  I  meant  that  affected  little  Spanish  kid!" 
he  exclaimed  good-naturedly.  Victoria  laughed  gaily  and  felt 
that  she  loved  stupid,  blundering  old  David. 

"I  don't  think  Sessions  is  in  a  position  to  marry,"  Victoria 
said  wisely.  This  hit  close  to  the  ache  in  the  boy's  heart — 
he  liked  Victoria  and  he  needed  womanly  sympathy. 

"Neither  am  I!"  he  said,  suddenly.  Victoria  saw  an 
opening. 

"It's  too  bad  Uncle  Harry  isn't  in  Papa's  position,"  she 
said.  "Papa  could  always  help  out  any  one  of  us  who  mar- 
ried anybody  who  couldn't  give  us  all  they  wished " 

Perhaps  Davy  did  not  understand  this  somewhat  obscure 
sentence:  he  made  no  comment.  They  were  still  within  the 
confines  of  the  Tasheira  ranch,  and  the  group  ahead  had  now 
reached  a  great  gate,  and  had  halted  for  Davy  and  Victoria. 
When  they  started  walking  again,  Davy  and  Nelly  led,  and 
Victoria  found  herself  with  Rudy.     Their  talk  was  one  shout 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  101 

of  nonsense  and  laughter,  and  presently  they  all  decided  to  go 
back  straight  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hillside,  a  scrambling, 
screaming,  slipping  performance  that  left  no  time  for  breath, 
much  less  confidences. 

But  Rudy  had  said  to  Nelly,  in  the  ten  minutes  in  which  he 
sauntered  by  her  side,  words  that  would  have  made  Victoria 
feel  that  she  did  not  know  him,  and  words  that  lingered  in 
Nelly's  gay  little  heart  for  a  long  time. 

There  was  an  air  about  this  eye-glassed,  fair-headed  youth, 
something  at  once  poised,  amused,  superior,  and  yet  friendly, 
that  always  had  the  effect  of  taking  away  Nelly's  breath.  She 
was  half  frightened  at  the  things  he  said,  and  wondered,  in  her 
own  heart,  how  any  mere  boy  could  know  so  much  about  girls. 
With  Davy  one  merely  talked,  but  with  Rudy,  Nelly  was  al- 
ways making  daring  answers,  only  to  find  that  he  was  ahead  of 
her,  ready  to  lead  her  into  fresh  boldness.  He  had  said  to  her, 
on  the  Sunday  they  met,  that  he  did  not  like  her  because  she 
was  simply  trying  to  attract  him  out  of  vanity,  and  Nelly,  al- 
though she  pretended  to  scorn  him,  knew  in  her  heart  that  it 
was  true.  He  had  confused  her,  and  excited  her,  that  first 
Sunday;  she  did  not  like  him;  he  was  "fresh";  but  she  had  not 
forgotten  him;  perhaps,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  it  was 
something  in  her  that  Rudy  had  roused  that  had  made  Davy- 
know,  on  the  boat,  that  he  might  kiss  her.  Perhaps  Rudy's 
easy  audacities  and  half-insolent  compliments  had  awakened 
her  as  Davy's  shy,  respectful  overtures  never  could  have  done. 

To-day  she  met  Rudy  boldly,  her  laughter  ready  for  his, 
her  crisp  little  saucy  rebuffs  meeting  his  familiarities  wherever 
they  struck.  But  he  was  exciting  her,  troubling  her,  again; 
■  she  was  breathing  quickly,  flushed  and  nervous,  even  while 
she  laughed.  Davy  looked  on  in  sullen  puzzlement;  it  was 
not  like  Nelly  to  say  daring  and  cutting  and  reckless  things  to  a 
1  man  she  scarcely  knew. 

Then  came  the  moment  when  Rudy,  sauntering  carelessly, 
was  beside  her  and  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  rest. 

"He's  in  love  with  you,  isn't  he?"  he  asked,  with  a  shrug 
in  Davy's  direction.     Nelly's  heart  leaped. 

She  could  not  answer;  her  eyes  met  his  and  the  blood  flew 
to  her  face.  This  assured  familiarity  was  very  different  from 
Davy's  husky  stammering,  and  it  made  her  uneasy. 

"I  thought  his  people  were — hard  up?"  Rudy  said. 


102    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well ?"     Nelly  managed  to  drag  the  word  out  into  a 

challenge.  Her  companion  smiled  mysteriously,  and  did  not 
immediately   speak. 

"So  you're  going  up  there  to  have  a  pack  of  barefooted 
children?"  he  asked,  shrugging.  "All  right.  Chacun  a  son 
gout!" 

Nelly  knew  nothing  of  French:  it  impressed  her  in  spite  of 
herself.  She  knew  she  should  rebuke  him  for  his  freedom;  she 
knew  that  in  any  group  of  self-respecting  women  Rudy  would 
have  been  condemned  as  coarse  and  rude.  But  Nelly  was  not 
a  group  of  self-respecting  women;  she  was  only  a  girl,  thrilled 
by  this  tremendous  subject  of  the  hunt  and  the  surrender  as  by 
no  other;  feeling,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  throbbing 
currents  of  love  and  passion  stir  within  her.  An  actual  physi- 
cal weakness  smote  her,  like  a  scented,  languorous  breeze  from 
some  dear  and  newly  discovered  country.  His  voice,  and  every 
word  he  said,  seemed  to  be  running  in  her  veins  like  wine. 
The  sweetness,  the  strangeness,  the  peril  of  it  lifted  her  far 
above  the  things  of  earth. 

"Nelly,"  he  said,  very  low.  "I  don't  want  to  hate  him;  he's 
decent  enough,  as  far  as  he  goes!     Do  I   have  to  hate  him?" 

Nelly  glanced  at  him  timidly;  he  was  striding  along  beside 
her  with  a  dark  look  on  his  face.  Now  was  the  time  to  strike, 
now.  But  she  could  not  strike — she  was  a  living,  breathing 
woman  for  the  first  time  in  her  twenty-two  years;  there  was  no 
going  back.     This  man  loved  her. 

"You — you  don't  know  Davy  well  enough  to  judge  him," 
she  said,  with  a  pleading  smile.  For  answer  Rudy  leaned 
close  beside  her,  and  his  breath  was  in  her  face  as  he  said: 

"  But  you  know  I  could  get  you  away  from  him — if  I  tried, 
don't  you?  I'm  not  going  to  try — don't  worry.  But  I  could 
do  it,  and  you  know  it!" 

Strange  mystery  of  a  girl's  heart  that,  trembling,  uneasy,  re- 
pelled as  well  as  attracted,  her  one  instinct — and  she  con- 
quered it — was  to  falter:  "Try!" 

The  girls  went  upstairs  in  a  group  to  freshen  their  costumes 
a  little  for  supper.  Nelly  was  quiet,  her  face  pale,  her  lips 
burning  scarlet,  and  her  eyes  smouldering  like  blue  fires.  Lola 
and  Lou  were  somewhat  bashfully  entering  into  friendship, 
and  Victoria  sparkled  like  a  star.     It  was  all  such  fun,  this 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    103 

being  away  from  home  for  dinner,  the  big,  damp,  plaster- 
scented  bedroom,  the  mirror  lighted  warmly  by  a  glass  lamp. 
Victoria  saw  herself  in  this  mirror,  glowing  and  lovely,  and  her 
spirits  rose  to  fever  pitch.  Senorita  Refugio  offered  her  an 
ivory  comb,  and  the  girl  stuck  it  into  her  dark  masses  of  hair 
with  a  conscious  coquetry;  she  was  wild  with  excitement  and 
pleasure.  The  Spanish  woman  showed  her  the  cunning  hooks 
where  the  lace  scarf  fastened  itself  to  the  comb,  and  presently 
Victoria  went  laughing  and  confident  to  Senorita  'Ception's 
room,  the  delicate  white  lace  of  a  rebosa  falling  about  her 
bright  face. 

Senorita  'Ception  kissed  her,  and  simple  affection  and  gaiety 
warmed  them  all;  Victoria  felt  that  she  loved  these  kindly, 
sweet  women,  and  she  knew  that  they  loved  her.  They  offered 
her  mellow  old  sherry,  before  dinner,  and  she  drank  it,  as  all  the 
others  did,  but  with  a  spontaneous  grace  and  pleasure  that 
astonished  Nelly  and  Lou.  She  drew  out  the  Sefioritas'  chairs 
with  daughterly  concern,  and  learned  from  the  giggling  Lupita 
a  Spanish  sentence:  "A  pretty  girl  has  no  choice  but  to  marry 
a  rich  man."     They  said  her  accent  was  perfection. 

They  were  ten  at  dinner:  a  great,  gawky  Spanish  boy,  who 
smelled  of  cow-barns,  joining  them  at  the  last  minute,  with  his 
sloe-black  hair  sleek  and  wet  with  oil,  and  his  big  red  hands 
evidently  just  washed.  Victoria  sat  between  Tia  'Ception — 
the  Sefioritas  by  this  time  had  insisted  that  all  the  girls  call 
them  "aunt" — and  this  newcomer:  he  was  not  introduced, 
but  she  knew  that  he  was  a  reputed  nephew,  one  Ruy  da  Sa, 
and  she  talked  to  him,  and  turned  upon  his  agonized  bashful- 
ness  the  whole  battery  of  her  friendly  beauty. 

There  were  two  high  lamps  en  the  table,  one  clear  glass,  one 
blue.  The  tablecloth  was  extremely  handsome,  but  the  cut- 
lery was  steel.  The  meal  was  served  by  five  or  six  half-breed 
girls,  who  shuffled  in  in  loose  slippers,  bare-legged,  muttering  to 
each  other  and  giggling  as  they  came  and  went,  but  it  was  both 
delicious  and  varied,  and  there  was  plenty  of  wine. 

A  sweet  soup,  like  a  sort  of  tapioca  custard,  tortillas,  then  a 
splendid  salmon,  with  frijoles,  then  eggs  scalloped  with  spin- 
ach, enchiladas,  and  a  sort  of  sweet  dumpling,  with  bananas  and 
apples  in  it.  Then  an  immense  trencher  of  chile  con  came  was 
set  before  Senorita  'Ception,  and  another  of  stewed  pigeons 
before  Senorita  Lupita,  and  side  dishes  of  rice  and  vegetables 


104    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  more  beans  and  long  loaves  of  crusty  fresh  sour  bread 
appeared. 

The  sisters  were  enchanted  with  their  guests'  enthusiasm, 
and  filled  plates  again  and  again.  Everyone  drank  the  red 
wine,  and  the  conversation  grew  loud  and  gay;  Victoria  was 
quite  the  centre  of  attention,  with  her  flashing  eyes  and  her 
adventures  in  the  Spanish  tongue,  and  Nelly  was  quite  unlike 
herself — excited  and  flushed  and  full  of  coquettish  side-glances 
calculated  to  render  Davy  half-mad,  and  not  lost  upon  Rudy 
Sessions.  Altogether  it  was  a  most  delightful  meal,  the  girls 
as  divertingly  new  to  their  hosts  as  the  whole  situation  was  to 
them. 

Seiiorita  'Ception  remembered  a  little  song  that  she  had 
sung  years  ago,  and  quite  simply  the  old  lady  sang  it,  in  a  high, 
broken  voice,  with  her  fat  elbows  resting  upon  the  table  that 
was  now  littered  with  fruit  skins,  with  rich  little  cakes,  with 
tall  glasses  half  full  of  wine,  and  broken  shells  of  their  own 
walnuts.  Victoria,  flashing,  said  that  the  sentiment  was  the 
same  as  in  the  new  song,  "Marguerite"  and,  after  some  urging, 
and  a  little  panic,  she  rested  her  elbows  on  the  table  in  turn, 
and  sang  it  with  such  feeling  that  tears  were  in  more  eyes  than 
her  own.  Then  to  make  them  laugh,  she  and  Rudy  and  Davy 
sang  the  popular  "Tit-willow"  song  from  the  "Mikado,"  and 
Senorita  Yolanda  laughed  herself  almost  into  hysterics  at  the 
meaning  of  the  words,  which  she  could  easily  grasp.  Then 
somebody  started  "Juanita"  and  they  all  sang  it,  and  it  was 
at  this  felicitous  moment  that  Stephen  Brewer  entered  in 
search  of  his  daughters. 

Victoria  gave  him  one  frightened  glance;  for  the  moment 
she  had  almost  forgotten  where  she  was  or  what  she  was  doing. 
But  his  good  look  of  surprised  fatherly  pleasure  in  her  beauty 
reassured  her;  Stephen  loved  feminine  beauty.  They  made 
him  sit  down,  and  he  had  a  glass  of  wine,  and  a  fig,  and  a  cake, 
while  the  girls  ran  upstairs  for  their  hats. 

And  then  they  piled  into  the  Brewer  surrey,  refusing  all 
protests  of  offers  of  additional  vehicles  from  the  Tasheiras,  the 
girls  kissed  each  other  and  the  old  women,  dogs  barked,  lights 
flashed,  voices  rang  back  and  forth  under  the  mackerel  sky 
that  showed  gray  patches  near  the  hidden  moon,  and  the 
horses  were  off  with  a  great  jerk.  The  three  girls  were  wedged 
into  the  back  seat,  Rudy  in  front  on  Davy's  lap;  they  swept 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    105 

in  a  gale  of  laughter  down  the  sunken  road  into  the  dark.  The 
night  air  was  sharply  cold. 

"Vicky,  wasn't  it  fun?"  said  Louisianna,  who  was  only 
silent  among  strangers.  "I  was  afraid  it  was  going  to  be  kind 
of — well,  silly,  when  they  asked  you  to  sing,  with  no  accom- 
paniment, you  know,  and  all  that!     But  it  wasn't." 

"Wasn't  it?"  Victoria  asked,  eager  for  praise. 

"It  was  perfectly  charming!"  said  Nelly,  in  her  pleasant 
voice.     "Wasn't  it,  Mr.  Sessions?" 

"You  are  always  charming,  Miss  Crabtree!"  said  Rudy 
over  his  shoulder. 

Everyone  laughed,  but  Nelly  flushed  too  in  the  dark.  He 
had  not  called  her  Miss  Crabtree  up  at  the  gate,  this  afternoon. 
She  fell  to  thinking  about  him. 

When  they  reached  the  Tasheira's  lower  farm  gate  there  was 
a  holloa  in  the  dark,  and  the  gate  wheeled  slowly  open  before 
them,  the  shaking  carriage  lanterns  picking  up  the  grinning 
face  of  Ruy  da  Sa  and  his  rough,  long-haired,  mud-spattered 
pony. 

"It  was  very  decent  of  the  old  Senoritas  to  send  someone 
ahead  to  do  that,"  Stephen  Brewer  said,  after  his  shout  of  thanks. 
Victoria  felt  a  special  little  thrill  of  thanks  on  her  own  account. 
It  seemed  improbable  now  that  her  father  would  scold  her  for  the 
escapade.  He  seemed  entirely  good-natured,  warmed  with 
wine  and  cheer.  And  anyway,  she  reasoned,  there  had  been 
five  in  the  party,  and  Mama  had  wished  her  to  show  some 
civility  to  the  Senoritas 

However,  she  was  not  to  escape  entirely,  even  though  her 
mother  had  sent  her  to  make  the  ungrateful  duty  call,  and  her 
father  had  temporarily  overlooked  the  high-handed  business  of 
accepting,  unadvised,  an  invitation  en  masse  for  supper.  Just 
why  it  occurred  to  both  her  mother  and  father  to  snub  her  on 
this  occasion,  Victoria  would  never  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
her  brilliant  disorder,  her  bright  eyes  and  loud  voice  irritated 
her  mother,  who  suspected  that  Victoria  had  had  the  real  experi- 
ence of  the  day  instead  of  poor  disappointed  Tina! 

For  Mr.  Yelland  had  failed  to  come  to  tea,  sending  no  warn- 
ing of  his  change  of  plan,  and  no  excuse.  Tina  had  looked  her 
prettiest,  and  the  kettle  had  boiled  and  boiled,  and  Tina's  music 


106    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

had  rested  untouched  on  the  piano.  It  was  all  extremely  morti- 
fying and  stupid,  and  Mrs.  Brewer  felt  an  unreasonable  inclina- 
tion to  vent  her  vexation  on  someone.  So  she  met  Victoria  in 
the  close,  cool,  dark  upper  hall,  and  said: 

"Please  don't  be  so  noisy!  You  all  seem  to  be  alive,  at  any 
rate!  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  give  me  some  reason  for  the 
extraordinary  message  that  the  Tasheira's  milk-boys  shouted 
out  at  five  o'clock.     I  don't  like  this,  Vic,  and  you  know  very 

well  why!    What  on  earth "     Mrs.  Brewer  had  led  the  way 

into  her  own  bedroom  now  and  turned  to  face  her  daughter  in 
the  lamplight.     "What  w#.r  it?     What  happened?" 

"Why,  nothing,  Mama!"  Victoria,  still  under  the  spell 
of  the  adventure,  said  lightly.  "The  Senoritas  begged  and 
begged  us  to  stay — and  said  that  you  and  Papa  never  came  near 
them,  and  I  really  didn't  know  what  you'd  want  me  to  do— — " 

"Another  time  do  nothing  unless  your  brother  is  with  you!" 
her  father  said  kindly  but  reprovingly.  Victoria  scowled, 
dropped  her  head,  and  bit  her  lip,  standing  before  them,  awk- 
ward and  angry,  for  a  minute,  before  she  made  her  escape.  Her 
brother!  She  ventured  a  parthian  shot.  "I  suppose  Bertie 
is  over  at  Kitty  Barbees!"  she  said,  departing. 

"I  don't  think  that  girl  always  tells  the  truth,"  said  her  father, 
sighing.  Victoria's  indifference  to  accurate  speech  was  indeed 
more  or  less  a  recognized  thing.  "She  doesn't  get  that  from 
the  Brewers,"  Stephen  commented.  Mrs.  Brewer  instantly 
bridled. 

"Well,  allow  me  to  state,  Steve,  that  it  isn't  a  Crabtree  trait!" 
she  said  warmly.  "Pa  is  almost  a  fanatic,  when  it  comes  to  the 
truth.  Oh,  we  have  our  faults,  I  know  — we're  a  hot-tempered 
lot,  and  we're  apt  to  be  a  little  dictatorial — 'uppity,'  as  Carra 
says.  But — why,  they  even  tell  of  a  Crabtree  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution — colonial  days! — who " 

"Your  father  has  kind  of  rasped  me — with  Robert,"  said 
Stephen,  heavily. 

Mrs.  Brewer's  eyes  contracted. 

"In  what  way?"  she  asked  apprehensively. 

"Robert  say  anything  to  you  about  going  back?"  her  husband 
demanded,  instead  of  answering  her. 

"To  Boston,  you  mean?" 

Stephen  Brewer,  who  had  taken  off  collar  and  shirt,  and  was 
washing  himself,  stood  in  the  doorway  that  led  to  that  stationary 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    107 

wash-stand,  and  looked  at  her  over  the  red-banded  towel.  Mrs. 
Brewer  had  removed  her  dress,  and  appeared  in  a  neat  garment 
that  served  both  as  petticoat  and  corset-cover,  and  was  edged 
with  scalloped  tape.  She  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  her  bed, 
thoughtfully  embracing  herself,  and  rubbing  her  full  big  arms. 

"What  else  could  I  mean,  Mama?"  Stephen  demanded. 
His  wife,  who  had  fallen  into  a  muse,  gave  a  sudden  start. 

"No,"  she  said  hastily  and  apologetically,  "he  didn't  say  any- 
thing when  I  met  him  at  Fanny's  yesterday." 

"I  have  a  notion  your  father  has  asked  him  to  stay!"  said 
Stephen. 

"I  think  it's  disgraceful!"  May  said.  "What  are  they  living 
on?" 

Stephen,  in  his  nightgown,  a  decorous,  widely  cut  garment 
decently  piped  with  red,  now  mounted  with  dignity  into  his  bed. 
He  drew  the  lamp  a  little  nearer,  and  slipped  the  Argonaut 
from  its  cover.  He  wondered  whether  or  not  to  further  ex- 
asperate his  wife,  or  to  magnificently  ignore  the  hated  topic,  as 
of  small  consequence. 

"Rob  is  helping  us  with  stock-taking,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Brewer  stood  transfixed.  So  Rob  was  worming  his  way 
in — Rob  was  worming  his  way  in ! 

"Rob  Crabtree  is!"  she  said  quietly. 

"Unfortunately,  yes,"  Stephen  said.  "I  say  unfortunately 
because  I  do  not  consider  your  brother  as  suited  to  our  sort  of 
business.  Yes,  your  father  suggested  it.  Or  rather — we  had 
to  have  someone,  and  Woolcock  asked  me  my  opinion.  'Let  Bob 
in,  let  us  see  how  he  takes  to  it!'  your  father  said." 

"Let  us  see  how  he  takes  to  it!"  May  repeated,  ominously. 
And  immediately  she  was  all  wife.  "Stephen,  that  isn't  fair! 
You've  put  the  best  years  of  your  life  into  the  firm,  just  to — 
just  to " 

"Just  to  feather  a  nest  for  Harry  and  Rob!"  Stephen  said. 

May  mused,  helpless  and  fuming. 

"Oh,  I  think  that  is  outrageous!"  she  sputtered.  "Can't 
you  go  to  Pa  flatly,  and  say  that  you'll  resign?" 

For  a  moment  Stephen  had  a  mad  vision  of  this  dazzling  step. 
But  he  knew  firstly,  that  the  old  man  would  accept  his  resigna- 
tion, even  if  it  meant  ruin,  which  it  probably  would  not,  and 
secondly,  that  his  standing  in  the  business  would  be  weakened 
by  a  quarrel  with  his  father-in-law,  Bertie's  future  jeopardized, 


108    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  his  chance  of  securing  an  equally  dignified  position  rendered 
very  slim. 

So  he  said,  with  his  comfortable  air  of  soothing  an  unreason- 
able woman : 

"No,  dear,  I  hardly  see  myself  giving  up  six  thousand  a  year 
just  because  your  father  takes  his  own  son  in  temporarily  for 
the  stock-taking.  I  shall  take  good  care  that  there  isn't  a  berth 
handy  by  the  time  he's  done!  It's  annoying — for  I  couldn't 
well  suggest  a  smaller  salary  than  what  we  pay  Bertie.  Bertie," 
his  father  added,  reasonably,  "promises  to  work  into  a  valuable 
man,  and  I  am  paying  him  for  the  future,  as  well  as  the  present. 
That's  a  perfectly  sound  business  principle,  perfectly  reason- 
able." 

"And  Pa,"  May  said  thoughtfully,  "of  course  Pa  simply 
can't  go  on — go  on  going  down  to  business — forever!" 

"Is  Bertie  home  to-night?"  the  man  of  the  house  suddenly 
asked. 

"No,  but  he  will  be  any  moment  now !  He's  with  Neil  Powers 
— they  wanted  to  try  some  little  Italian  restaurant,  and  I  saw  no 
harm  in  it!"  Mrs.  Brewer  hastened  to  say. 

"Then  what  did  Vic  mean  about — the  Barbee  girl?>? 

"Oh,  nothing,  dear — that's  just  Vic!  Bertie  has  never  men- 
tioned her,  himself.  Neil  rather  admires  the  girl — she's  a  com- 
mon sort  of  little  creature,  Kitty  Barbee.  Why,  you  know  the 
Barbee  crowd,  Steve,  the  plumber,  down  near  the  station? — 
his  daughter." 

Stephen  looked  thoughtful,  but  said  nothing.  He  wondered 
if  Neil  and  Bertie  were  quite  open  in  the  matter.  He  himself 
had  come  home  from  the  city  on  the  six  o'clock  boat,  and  an  ac- 
quaintance had  said  casually  to  him,  "Just  saw  Bertie  on 
board!" 

Well,  perhaps  the  little  Italian  restaurant  was  on  this  side  of 
the  bay.  There  were  one  or  two  in  Saucelito,  hanging  shabbily 
over  the  water,  and  rather  pleasant  at  high  tide. 

"I  wonder  that  Bertie  doesn't  fancy  Nelly — she's  after  all 
no  blood  kin!"  he  said  presently.     His  wife  flushed  angrily. 

"I  devoutly  hope  he'll  never  be  attracted  there!"  she  said 
firmly. 

For  Mrs.  Brewer,  while  not  what  was  known  as  "in  society," 
knew  of  no  good  reason  why  her  children  should  not  achieve  that 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    109 

distinction  and  marry  well.  She  knew  a  great  many  of  the 
leading  San  Francisco  families,  called  upon  the  city's  richest 
and  most  fashionable  women,  and  as  the  inchoate  social  mass  of 
ten  years  before  began  definitely  to  shape  itself  into  something 
exclusive  and  desirable,  she  was  pleased  to  find  herself,  if  not 
prominent,  at  least  nominally  on  the  right  side  of  the  wall. 
Slowly  San  Francisco's  more  prosperous  matrons  began  to 
weed  and  readjust  the  available  material,  and  there  were  certain 
hints  given  to  the  hosts  at  the  bachelor  dances,  and  there  were 
certain  calling  cards  steadily  ignored.  The  fortunes  that  had 
been  dragged  from  mines  and  rails,  or  even  more  rapidly  gained 
in  the  stock-market,  felt  themselves  stable  at  last,  invested 
themselves  in  city  property,  displayed  themselves  in  handsome 
homes.  The  shops  began  to  show  Paris  fashions,  and  words 
forgotten,  or  never  known  on  the  last  frontier,  words  like  "gover- 
ness" and  "finish"  and  "genteel"  began  to  float  through  refined 
conversations.  The  immediate  business  of  bread-getting  being 
solved  for  the  moment,  San  Francisco  turned  herself  to  dances 
and  dinners,  and  certain  persons  were  acceptable  and  certain 
others  not.  Twenty  years  before  a  handsome  French  woman, 
a  Spanish  beauty,  or  any  woman  presentable  and  amusing, 
might  be  mistress  of  a  man's  house,  and  there  were  no  questions 
asked  by  men  only  too  eager  to  see  a  woman  at  all.  But  now 
this  family  discovered  Plymouth  Rock  ancestors,  and  that  re- 
ferred affectionately  to  Lord  Baltimore  as  cousin,  and  San 
Francisco  became  severely  critical  of  lineage;  none-the-less  be- 
cause even  the  most  impeccable  families  found  it  somewhat 
difficult  to  reconcile  with  the  enviable  history  of  wealth,  dis- 
tinction, and  birth,  in  Massachusetts  or  Virginia,  their  being, 
there  in  California  at  all. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  a  sad  streak  of  adventure  in  our  blood!" 
the  Brewer  girls  heard  their  mother  say,  to  explain  the  first 
venturing  westward.  "My  father  was  extremely  delicate,  and 
the  family  thought  the  trip  across  the  plains  would  be  wonder- 
fully advantageous!"  and  "My  dear  husband's  coming  here  was 
just  the  freak  of  a  rich  man's  son!"  the  other  women  might  reply. 

Even  the  Brewer  girls  knew  that  their  Grandfather  Crab- 
tree's  early  Californian  days  had  been  strange  and  rough,  to  say 
the  least  of  it.  He  had  opened  a — yes,  it  was  a  grocery  store, 
and  Mama's  Aunt  Jenny  had  had  a  boarding  house.  There  had 
been  mention  of  fights,  the  early  justice  of  the  Vigilante  Com- 


no  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

mittee,  and  there  had  also  been  the  scurvy — the  odious-sound* 
ing  affliction — which  had  destroyed  his  teeth,  and  a  venture  in 
the  stock  market  which  had  made  money  for  him,  in  some 
rather  debatable  fashion. 

But  from  this  long-ago  beginning  had  been  built  the  impecca- 
ble business  of  Crabtree  and  Company.  Nobody  could  find 
any  fault  with  that.  And  Mama  had  been  one  of  the  most 
popular  and  beautiful  girls  in  society;  she  said  so  herself. 

May  Crabtree,  as  this  admired  belle  of  the  long  ago,  and  as 
young  Mrs.  Brewer,  had  thought  little  of  her  associates  in  the 
city.  But  now  that  these  old  friends  were  forming  themselves 
into  a  definite  and  exclusive  social  circle,  she  was  often  heard  to 
emphasize  the  familiarity  with  which  she  knew  them  all;  she  had 
danced  many  a  dance  with  the  de  Pinnas  and  the  Jordans,  and 
she  and  Fan  had  been  with  the  Holley  girls  when  their  father 
committed  suicide  in  the  stock  market.  She  knew  things  about 
them  all,  the  murders  and  bigamies  and  thefts  and  lies  upon 
which  a  new  society  is  built;  she  knew  which  family  had  a  streak 
of  Indian  blood,  and  which  proud  name  sheltered  the  identity 
of  a  jail-bird. 

One  never  mentioned  these  things,  of  course,  and  one  scorned 
the  shameless  press  that  occasionally  aired  them.  But  May  saw 
the  daughters  of  all  these  persons  growing  up  fine  and  pretty, 
dancing  and  chattering  French,  and  she  followed  suit  as  best  she 
might.  The  united  Crabtree  and  Brewer  fortunes  were  not 
great  fortunes,  but  there  were  the  dozen  teaspoons  that  Ma  had 
bought,  and  the  silver  platter  Pa  and  her  children  had  given 
her  on  her  twenty-fifth  wedding  anniversary.  And  then  they 
were  the  Crabtrees  of  Crabtree,  Illinois,  and  that  could  be  in- 
advertently mentioned,  now  and  then. 

So  May  put  up  a  bold  fight,  discovering,  with  a  creeping  little 
misgiving  in  her  heart,  that  she  was  rather  late.  She  had  been 
too  long  absorbed  in  her  nursery;  life  was  moving  too  fast.  The 
charmed  circle  was  closing  tighter  and  tighter,  and  she  was  not 
always  sure  that  she  was  inside.  For  several  years  she  had 
been  nibbling  about  anxiously,  seeing  that  Esme  had  a  card  to 
this,  and  that  Vicky  was  not  overlooked  for  that,  without  ever 
quite  feeling  that  she  belonged  there.  Esme,  unfortunately, 
was  distinctly  hopeless  material;  pretty  enough  when  one 
analyzed  her  features,  but  somewhat  lifeless  and  colourless,  too 
quickly  jealous  and  critical  to  form  warm  friendships  or  attract 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  in 

(overs.  She  had  selected  for  her  bosom  friend  one  Jenny- 
Pembroke,  a  heavy,  big,  unpopular  girl  some  years  older,  who 
would  have  resented  Esme's  successes,  if  Esme  had  been  in- 
dependent enough  to  make  them,  and  the  two  looked  on  at 
dances,  murmured  scornfully,  and  congratulated  themselves 
that  they  were  not  empty-headed  fools  like  other  girls. 

Victoria's  social  experience  was  necessarily  affected  by  Esme; 
the  older  sister  had  not  made  herself  especially  liked,  and  invita- 
tions were  consequently  a  little  less  ready  for  the  younger. 
More  than  that,  the  Brewers'  fortunes  did  not  quite  keep  pace 
with  the  demand.  The  ostentatious  building  of  the  handsome 
country  home  twenty  years  ago  had  indeed  had  its  effect,  but 
there  were  hundreds  of  such  homes  now,  and  scores  much  finer, 
and,  after  the  war,  different  southern  families  had  come  to  the 
coast,  and  those  that  had  succeeded  in  rebuilding  shattered 
fortunes,  were  beginning  to  rule  the  old  mining  and  pioneering 
group.  Indeed,  for  many  years  the  San  Francisco  ideal  was 
formed  somewhere  below  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line,  many  a 
doubtful  social  standing  was  steadied  by  imaginary  ties  in  the 
denuded  south,  and  all  the  world — forgetting  the  blue  uniforms 
that  were  even  now  packed  away  in  western  attics — clapped 
when  the  band  played  "Dixie." 

So  while  their  mother  could  laugh  with  Aunt  Fanny  at  up- 
starts and  parvenus,  the  Brewer  girls  knew  that  they  were 
vaguely  outside  the  ring,  invited  to  subscription  dances  only, 
garden  parties,  weddings,  and  wedding-receptions,  but  not  in- 
cluded in  those  madly  exciting  and  exhilarating  smaller  affairs 
that  went  on  continually  among  what  the  newspapers  called  the 
jeunesse  doree." 

Victoria's  closest  friend  was  also  badly  chosen,  although 
the  girl  could  have  had  no  possible  means  of  knowing  that.  Lily 
and  Daisy  Baker  were  among  the  seven  children  of  "Baked 
Potato  Baker/'  whose  finding  of  a  famous  nugget  had  won  him 
his  nickname  years  before.  His  wife  was  a  Spanish  woman 
who  died  young,  leaving  her  family  to  the  care  of  a  handsome, 
dashing  housekeeper  called  "Mrs.  Pringle,"  whose  position  in 
the  Baker  family  was  rather  puzzling  to  all  interested  onlookers. 
Lily  and  Daisy  were  the  oldest  children  and  the  only  girls,  and 
as  Tom  and  Younger  were  quite  out  of  leading  strings — indeed 
were  sowing  desperate  crops  of  wild  oats  by  this  time — and 
Bernardo,  Charley,  and  Pio  had  been  sent  to  the  Jesuits'  school 


ii2    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

in  San  Jose,  Mrs.  Pringle's  comfortable  settlement  in  the  big 
house  in  Eddy  Street  was  something  of  a  superfluity.  This 
was  the  more  marked  because  Victoria's  friend,  Lily,  had  re- 
cently married  a  rich,  handsome,  dissipated  young  man  named 
Elmer  Duvalette,  and  was  living  in  splendid  style  at  the  Palace 
Hotel,  and  because  Daisy  was  almost  as  wild  and  reckless  as  her 
brothers. 

The  Bakers  had  spent  their  summers  in  Blithedale  for  many 
years,  riding  across  the  ridge  once  a  week,  like  a  troop  of  Indians, 
to  call  on  the  Brewers  in  San  Rafael;  they  had  seen  each  other 
constantly  in  the  winters,  and  the  old  man's  fabulous  wealth 
had  reconciled  Mrs.  Brewer  to  certain  irregularities  in  his 
domestic  affairs.  There  seemed  to  be  no  question  of  the  money; 
Mrs.  Pringle  sent  to  Paris  for  the  boys'  ridiculous  little  suits, 
Tom  and  Younger  opened  champagne  every  day  at  the  family 
luncheon,  and  drove  the  fastest  and  finest  horses  in  the  city, 
and  the  girls  wore  diamonds  about  their  thin  little  throats  and 
upon  their  unformed  hands.  Daisy  was  only  twenty-one  now, 
and  Lily's  marriage  had  been  made  at  nineteen.  Victoria 
secretly  envied  her  friend.  Lily  had  had  several  admirers,  had 
laughed  and  flirted  with  them  and  struck  them  with  her  fan, 
and  had  told  Victoria  what  they  said  to  her.  And  now,  sud- 
denly, she  was  married,  still  so  much  younger  even  than  Tina, 
and  there  was  a  barrier  between  her  and  her  maiden  friends. 
Perhaps  it  seemed  none-the-less  a  barrier  to  Victoria  because 
Lily  was  so  complacently  conscious  of  it;  there  were  certain 
things  one  mightn't  say  to  dear  old  Vicky  any  more;  there  was 
a  married  attitude  too  delicious  not  to  be  tasted  to  its  last  drop. 

Lily,  with  Victoria  silently  and  observantly  following  her, 
would  flash  gaily  into  the  hotel,  stop  at  the  desk  to  ask  if  there 
was  any  mail  for  "Mrs.  Duvalette,"  dimple  distractingly  at  the 
clerk  when  she  said  that  she  wanted  to  know  the  very  minute 
of  "my  husband's"  coming  in,  not  to  keep  him  waiting  for  his 
lunch.  She  would  lead  Victoria  to  the  great  luxurious  bedroom 
with  its  tumbled  bed,  and  with  perhaps  the  eggy  and  cooling 
remains  of  a  lavish  breakfast  tray,  and  while  she  prettily  scolded 
the  chambermaid  for  dilatoriness  she  knew,  and  Victoria  knew 
that  she  knew,  exactly  the  effect  of  this  intimate  glimpse  upon 

her  friend.     To  be  married,  and  to  live  at  the  Palace !     Life 

held  nothing  more  intoxicatingly  complete.  But  to  be  married, 
anyway 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  113 

Victoria  felt  it,  Esme  and  Tina  writhed  over  the  unattainable 
necessity,  perhaps  even  little  Lou  felt  it,  in  her  silent  way.  But 
most  of  all  their  mother  longed  to  see  them  all  settled  well,  to 
speak  of  "my  daughters,  all  married  now — alas!"  and  to  have 
Bertie,  if  he  married  at  all,  marry  securely.  This  little  Kitty 
Barbee  was  a  nice  enough  little  nonentity — but  Bertie's  must  be 
a  brilliant  wedding,  with  a  Wesley,  a  Murchison,  a  Persons,  a 
Jordan  or  a  de  Pinna.  Tina  might  wed  her  parson,  perhaps, 
and  for  Esme  her  mother  already  began  to  form  the  protective 
phrase  "Mama's  home  girl,"  but  Vicky  and  Louisianna  must 
make  brilliant  matches.  She  always  remembered  in  this  con- 
nection that  the  little  Cunningham  boy,  whose  mother  was  a 
Murchison,  had  made  violent  love  to  Victoria,  one  sleepy  after- 
noon at  Blithedale,  when  he  was  fifteen  and  the  girl  a  year 
younger,  and  that  all  the  ladies,  laughing  at  the  infatuated 
youth,  had  augured  Victoria's  enormous  popularity. 

"After  all,"  Mrs.  Brewer  thought  sleepily,  as  the  various 
troublesome  thoughts  about  Vicky,  and  the  disappointing  Mr. 
Yelland,  and  Bob  Crabtree,  and  Lottie's  latest  impudence,  began 
to  drift  through  her  head,  "after  all,  serious  affairs  come  up 
very  quickly — two  months  from  now  one  or  two  of  the  girls  will 
be  engaged,  and  I  shall  have  all  this  fretting  for  nothing!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

IIFE  moved  on  to  Christmas  time,  slowly  enough  for  the 
Brewer  family,  who  filled  it  with  embroidery,  music- 
-J  lessons,  painting,  and  idle  reading;  rapidly  for  Lucy's 
household,  which  was  always  busy.  Nelly ,  freed  for  a  few  weeks 
from  the  kindergarten,  and  frantically  attempting  to  finish  be- 
fore the  inexorably  advancing  twenty-fifth  various  efFects  in 
tissue  paper,  satin  ribbon,  and  orris-root,  known  as  her  "Christ- 
mas presents,"  felt  panic  even  early  in  December.  Alice  and 
Georgie  cuddled  together  in  their  father's  slippery  great  arm- 
chair in  the  evenings  and  whispered  secrets,  and  Lucy  bought, 
and  domesticated  in  her  back  yard,  a  scrawny  turkey.  As  for 
Harry,  always  happy,  he  was  especially  happy  at  these  times, 
tramping  home  through  the  early  and  earlier  dark,  catching  a 
great  breath  of  homely  warmth  and  comfort  from  the  kitchen 
as  he  entered  it. 

One  day  in  January,  1886,  when  sheets  of  rain  were  sweeping 
over  the  city,  and  the  little  Crabtree  house  was  warm  and 
smelled  of  wet  woolens,  he  told  his  wife  that  Rob  had  been 
offered  the  management  of  the  mail  order  department  of  Crab- 
tree  and  Company.  Lucy  continued  to  strain  her  tomato  soup, 
her  eye  speculative  where  it  might  once  have  been  angry.  The 
months  had  subtly  changed  the  relationship  between  all  four 
branches  of  the  family,  as  introducing  the  element  of  Ella  and 
Rob  was  bound  to  do.  Fanny  had  naturally  aligned  herself 
with  her  father  in  giving  the  Robert  Crabtrees  every  favour 
on  their  return.  Of  herself,  Fanny  might  have  done  no  such 
thing,  but  she  could  not  very  well  do  otherwise  because  of  the 
determined  stand  of  the  old  man.  May  Brewer  had  unwisely 
shown  feeling  over  this,  and  Lucy  had  come  in  for  the  heated 
confidences  of  the  older  sister.  Fanny  immediately  turned  | 
to  Ella,  discovering  in  Ella  unsuspected  charms,  and  guiding 
her  on  shopping  and  sightseeing  tours.  So  that  Lucy  found  her 
position  with  the  Brewers  stronger  than  it  had  ever  been,  the 

114 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    115 

girls  exchanged  over-night  visits  with  a  frequency  they  had  not 
!  enjoyed  since  childhood,  and  the  ideal  match,  between  Nelly 
I  and  Bertie,  of  which  Lucy  had  dreamed  for  years,  did  not  seem 
as  utterly  unattainable  as  it  had  formerly. 

Nelly  had  indeed  confided  to  her  mother  her  half  promise  to 
Davy  Dudley,  but  Lucy,  with  a  worldly  wisdom  that  made  Nelly 
but  a  baby  again,  was  working  against  it  with  every  means  in 
her  power.  She  saw  Davy,  and  told  him  frankly  and  kindly 
that  the  arrangement  was  a  great  injustice  to  Nelly.  When  did 
he  expect  to  be  able  to  care  for  her?  In  five  years?  The  five 
best  and  happiest  and  sweetest  years  of  her  life,  Lucy  reminded 
him. 

"All  very  easy  for  you,  Davy,  you  get  a  cook  and  a  house- 
keeper," Lucy  said,  in  her  pleasant  friendly  voice  that  so  masked 
the  unfriendly  words.     " But  what  about  her?" 

Davy  could  only  stammer  huskily  that  of  course  he  realized 
that,  but  he  didn't  expect  that  times  would  always  be  so 
hard. 

'  'Oh,  I  know  all  about  times,"  Lucy  laughed  ruefully,  with  her 
favourite  air  of  being  witty,  "and  they're  always  hard  for  some 
people!" 

With  Nelly  she  took  a  different  attitude:  she  was  extremely 
sympathetic,  but  with  a  manner  of  veiled  amusement  and 
sage  tolerance,  that  routed  the  girl  over  and  over  again. 

"Davy — you  mention  Davy,"  Lucy  would  say  cozily,  over 
the  darning  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  "tell  me  about  him.  How 
are  our  wedding  plans  going  on?" 

"Mama — "  Nelly  would  protest,  uncomfortably.  "As  if  we 
could  talk  of  weddings,  yet!" 

"Oh,  can't  we?"     Lucy  was  extremely  innocent. 

"Well,  you  know  we  can't!     Davy  has  no  money." 

"I  suppose  not.     But  I  didn't  know  that  that  was  a  barrier!" 

"Mama,"  Nelly  would  plead,  looking  appealingly  at  the 
demure  mouth  that  was  smiling  down  at  a  worn  heel,  "please 
don't  tease!" 

"Was  I  teasing?  Well,  she  shouldn't  be  teased.  Go  on,  dear, 
tell  me  more  of  these  wonderful  schemes." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,  Mama — especially  with  you  laughing 
at  me.     But  Davy  is  saving " 

"Ah-h!  This  looks  serious.  We  have  a  bank-account,  have 
we?" 


n6  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well,  he  has  nearly  a  hundred — at  least  he  has  about  sixty- 
two  dollars!" 

"Gracious!  But  go  on.  What  are  we  to  do  with  this  won- 
derful sixty-two  dollars?" 

"Mama,  please " 

"Please  what,  dear?" 

"Please  don't  laugh  at  us!" 

"My  dear,  if  you  want  to  marry  into  drudgery  and  hard  work 
and  poverty  and  sickness  of  all  sorts,  do  you  think  your  mother 
is  going  to  find  it  a  laughing  matter?" 

This  would  crush  Nelly:  the  stocking  she  was  darning  would 
blur  before  tears  of  pain,  and  her  throat  would  thicken  and 
her  face  flush. 

"It  doesn't  have  to  be  that,  Mama!" 

"Doesn't  it?"  Lucy  was  brisk  and  self-controlled.  "I 
think  it  does,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one  thing,  Nelly, 
There's  to  be  no  definite  engagement  between  you  and  Davy, 
and  no  talk  of  marriage,  until  things  are  in  a  very  different  state! " 

Nelly  made  no  special  protest  against  this;  she  loved  to  have 
Davy  kiss  her  and  tell  her  how  wonderful  she  was,  but  she 
definitely  disliked  the  idea  of  marrying  a  poor  man.  It  made 
her  impatient  and  tearful;  she  told  Davy  that  she  didn't  know 
why  he  always  wanted  to  talk  so  "crazy." 

"There's  nothing  crazy  about  a  man  wanting  to  marry  the 
woman  he  loves,  Nell." 

"I'm  not  a  woman!" 

"Well,  the  girl,  then." 

"But  it  is  crazy,  Davy,  with  your  mother  having  that  doctor 
bill  to  pay,  and  her  roof  leaking  and  everything!  And  you 
haven't  had  a  suit  since  you  came  to  the  city " 

"I'm  going  to  get  myself  some  new  clothes,  after  a  while. 
Doc  Hughes  gave  me  this  suit,  and  I'm  twice  his  size,"  David 
explained  laughing  uncomfortably.  "I  drive  his  horse  back  to 
the  barn  for  him,  nights,  and  sometimes  he  takes  me  with  him 
to  the  hospital.  Maybe,  some  day,  if  I  graduate,  he'll  take  me 
in  with  him,  but  I  don't  know.  You  see,  my  aunt's  in  kind  of 
trouble,  Nelly,  and  things  at  home  are  going  kind  of  bad.     .    .    ." 

Thus  Davy,  eager  to  enlist  her  sympathy  and  interest.  But 
Nelly  was  irritated.  It  was  always  money — money — money; 
she  hated  money. 

They  were  walking  in  winter  sunlight,  and  she  thought  Davy 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    117 

looked  conspicuously  shabby;  she  fancied  other  girls  and  men, 
also  walking,  looked  as  if  they  thought  so,  too.  His  hands  were 
bare  and  his  hat  was  old. 

That  was  money  again;  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  he  could 
get  a  new  suit  and  new  shoes.  She  supposed  that  all  her  life 
long  she  was  destined  to  worry  about  money,  so  hard  to  get,  and 
so  necessary  to  happiness!  When  he  left  her  at  her  gate  that 
night  and  saw  the  blue  hat  go  up  the  path,  and  the  three  steps, 
and  along  the  little  oblong  porch  to  the  door,  Davy  knew  that 
he  had  lost  her,  for  a  while  at  least.  He  carried  to  his  aunt's 
depressing  kitchen  the  heaviest  heart  that  he  had  ever  known. 
Everything  hurt  him:  Miss  Clay's  casual  reference  to  Nelly's 
mother;  the  snapshot  of  Nelly  taken  by  Rudy  Sessions  on  the 
Tasheira  walk,  weeks  before;  even  the  blonde  smiling  girl  on  the 
Hood's  Sarsaparilla  Calendar  who  looked  a  little  like  her.  But 
he  loved  her  so  that  he  could  not  think  but  that  she  must  come 
back  to  him,  in  the  end. 

Meanwhile  his  aunt's  boarders  had  gone,  rent  was  overdue, 
bills  and  interest  on  an  old  loan  were  pressing.  And  Miss  Clay 
had  developed  a  mysterious  ailment,  and  consumed  bottle  after 
bottle  of  a  black,  odorous  medicine.  Through  the  black  stains 
soaking  the  label  Davy  could  read  the  dosage:  "A  tablespoonful 
three  times  daily,"  but  Aunt  Lilly  took  it  much  more  often, 
every  hour — every  half-hour.  She  cried  constantly,  and  it 
began  to  appear  that  their  only  escape  was  in  a  return  to  Napa. 

Next  door,  affairs  were  not  much  better.  Georgie  Crabtree 
had  a  heavy  bronchial  cough  all  through  November  and  Decem- 
ber, and  just  after  Christmas  Harry  was  kept  at  home  four 
days  with  a  severe  case  of  tonsillitis.  Cold  rains  were  falling 
over  the  city;  amiable  and  sympathetic  little  Alice  had  to  go 
downtown  twice  to  explain  at  his  office  that  her  father  was  ill. 
He  would  try  to  be  down  to-morrow  morning. 

Harry,  convalescent,  was  moved  to  the  kitchen  on  the  fourth 
day,  where  he  sat  weakly  and  contentedly  watching  his  women- 
folk. The  day  was  bleak  and  raw;  Nelly  was  ironing  a  cross- 
barred  muslin  dress;  Lucy  lamenting  over  some  jam  that  had 
coated  over  thickly  with  plushy  green  mould. 

"Disgusting  stuff!"  she  said,  sticky  and  heated,  and  rubbing 
the  end  of  her  nose  with  a  bent  wrist.  "Why  women  can't 
manage  to  do  all  their  work  through  community  kitchens  is 
more  than  I  know!     This  morning,"  said  Lucy,  smiling,  "I  got 


n8  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

possessed  of  an  idea  for  a  kitchen  costume,  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing else  until  I  sat  down  and  wrote  it  all  out!  I  do  think  the 
way  we  let  ourselves  suffer  all  sorts  of  discomforts,  year  after 
year     ..." 

Nelly  thumped  an  iron;  a  sheet  of  rain  blew  against  the  win- 
dow. Georgie,  reading  a  magazine,  looked  up  from  the  floor 
upon  which  he  was  comfortably  stretched. 

"Pa,  do  you  believe  they'll  ever  have  horseless  carriages?" 

"How  do  they  propose  to  keep  'em  going,  son?"  Harry  asked, 
interested. 

"Workless  meals  are  a  good  deal  more  interesting  to  me!" 
Lucy,  who  was  vigorously  washing  her  hands  at  the  sink,  and  at 
the  same  time  sluicing  mould,  jam,  and  dust  down  the  drain, 
said,  crossly.  Everyone  laughed.  Nelly,  going  to  the  door, 
stopped  to  give  her  father  a  kiss. 

"Who's  that?"  Lucy  said  curiously,  as  the  rotary  bell  on 
the  front  door  sounded  again. 

"I'll  see!"  Nelly  was  gone  only  a  moment;  she  came  swiftly 
back  from  the  icy  front  hall  with  a  wet  cardboard  box  in  her 
hand.  "It's  for  me,"  she  said,  bewildered  and  shyly  expectant. 
"It  was  from  Anderson's,  in  Mission  Street.   I  guess  it's  flowers!  " 

"Who  from,  for  the  land's  sake!"  Lucy  exclaimed. 

"I  guess  Davy,"  Nelly  said,  breaking  the  string.  But  a 
minute  later  she  looked  up  from  the  wet,  sweet  violets  with 
shining  eyes.  "Mama!  It's  Mr.  Sessions — isn't  that  nice  of 
him!  He  says — "  She  read  the  card  aloud,  "'Saw  you  on 
the  Polk  Street  dummy,  but  you  wouldn't  bow  to  me !'  Mama," 
cried  Nelly,  with  flaming  cheeks,  "don't  you  think  that's  sweet 
of  him!" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Lucy  said  thoughtfully,  taking  the  card  daintily 
in  damp  fingers.  Nelly  was  frankly  radiant  as  she  went  back 
to  her  ironing;  the  event  as  it  stood  was  enough  to  make  her 
heart  sing.  Lucy  was  looking  beyond  it  into  a  future  that  only 
she  could  see,  and  her  eyes  were  contented,  too. 

Alice  came  in,  breathless,  wet,  bringing  a  rush  of  cool  air 
into  the  warm  kitchen.  Her  father  looked  at  her  in  painful 
expectation. 

"Mr.  Barrell  was  there — whoo!  I'm  blown  to  pieces," 
gasped  Alice,  in  her  fresh,  laughing  voice.  "Mr.  Barrell  was 
there,  Papa,  and  then  Mr.  Casey  came  out." 

"And  what  did  they  tell  you,  dear?"  Harry  asked  nervously. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  119 

"Well— not  much,"  Alice  said  vaguely.  "Mr.  Barrell  said 
that  he  had  expected  you  yesterday " 

"Yes,  I  know  he  did!"  Harry  said  quickly,  with  a  glance  at 
his  wife.  Lucy  interpolated  immediately,  in  a  patient,  monot- 
onous tone. 

"You  couldn't  have  gone  out  yesterday  with  that  throat  in 
that  rain!" 

"But  Mr.  Casey  said  he  was  sorry,  and  that  Mr.  Lippey  was 
helping  with  your  bills!"  Alice  said,  catching  the  drift  of  the 
conversation  and  anxious  to  please. 

"Casey  did? — he's  fine  old  fellow,"  Harry  said,  brightening. 
"Did — did  Barrell  say  anything  then?" 

"No,  he  just  turned  away,"  Alice  answered  conscientiously. 
"And  then  Mr.  Casey  said  to  me,  'Ask  your  father  to  get  down 
to-morrow  if  he  can,'  because  they  were  very  busy!" 

"Yes,  I  know — and  I  certainly  will  be  back  to-morrow!" 
Harry  decided  quickly.  He  did  not  speak  of  Mr.  Barrell  again, 
but  two  or  three  times,  as  the  wet  afternoon  hours  wore  quietly 
on,  he  alluded  gratefully  to  old  Casey.  He  said  he  hoped  some 
day  to  do  something  for  old  Casey.  Alice  sat  down  with  her 
arithmetic;  presently  Miss  Clay  came  in.  She  was  a  little 
damp  too,  and  pleased  to  sit  between  Nelly's  busy  iron  and  the 
glowing  stove,  and  contribute  such  news  as  she  could  to  the 
listening  circle. 

"Johnson  come  round  to  see  would  I  renew  my  lease,"  Miss 
Clay  said,  wiping  her  nose  on  a  man's  crumpled  handkerchief, 
"but  I  don't  know's  I  can.  There's  so  much  to  it,  Mr.  Crab- 
tree!  I  pay  eighteen,  and  it's  the  least  of  my  expenses!  When 
you've  got  to  pay  for  your  milk,  and  every  mouthful  of  vegeta- 
bles you  eat — it's  terrible.  Del  wrote  me — that's  Davy's 
mother,  and  s'she,  'Lil,  there's  no  place  like  the  country,  these 
times!'  but  I  don't  know  that  Del's  having  it  any  too  easy. 
Ask  me  if  I  knew  of  a  couple  teachers  who  would  like  to  board 
up  there,  this  vacation !" 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  lovely,"  Alice  said  ardently. 

"What  say,  dear?"  Miss  Clay  said,  suddenly  turning  a 
somewhat  troubled  smile  upon  the  child.  "You  don't  know 
nothin'  about  it,"  she  assured  her,  not  unkindly.  "It's  work — 
work — work.  Well,  that's  life!  I  says  to  Davy  this  morning 
that  I  didn't  know  where  we  was  going  to  end  up  at.  But  I 
iguess  we'll  git  through — folks  generally  does!" 


120    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Nelly  listened  thoughtfully;  her  eyes  full  of  pain  caused  by 
some  thought  that  tied  these  dismal  reflections  to  her  own 
bright  and  radiant  dreams. 

"  Davy's  mother  is  all  wore  out,"  pursued  the  visitor  morosely. 
"Del  ain't  but  forty-five,  and  she  looks  sixty!  I  don't  know  as 
she's  ever  had  ten  dollars  to  spend  on  herself  in  her  life.  Seen 
a  beau  of  yours  this  afternoon,  Nelly,"  she  added,  good- 
naturedly. 

"Who's  that?"  Nelly  wet  her  thumb,  drew  it  over  the  cufF 
she  was  ironing,  and  pressed  the  iron  on  the  damp  muslin. 

"Doc  Hughes.  He  was  clippin'  along  in  that  little  buggy 
of  his — Ts  way  out  past  Fletcher's — went  out  to  git  some  lettuce 
and  cabbages  off  the  Chinamen.  It  was  rainin'  to  beat  all,  and 
he  stopped  and  give  me  a  lift.  He's  a  real  nice  feller;  Davy 
takes  care  of  his  horse,  you  know.  He  asked  for  you — says  you 
was  sweet-lookin',  or  something  like  that!" 

"Well,  forever!"  Nelly  said,  pleased.  "I  hardly  know  him. 
Mama  used  to  know  his  wife,  before  she  died.     Did  you  ever!" 

"I've  always  felt  that  Nelly  was  going  to  marry  a  man  older 
than  she  is!"  Lucy  said,  struck.  Both  Alice  and  Nelly  laughed 
joyously,  and  Alice  said  seriously: 

"He's  an  awfully  nice  man,  isn't  he,  Mama?" 

But  Lucy  was  thinking. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  don't  get  boarders,  Lil,"  she  said  to 
her  neighbour.  "I  know  there's  money  in  it.  I've  often  thought 
I  could  make  a  small  fortune  at  it.  That  Mrs.  Thompson — 
where  Harry  and  I  were  married — retired  with  a  pile  of  money, 
they  said!" 

"I  guess  she  didn't  retire  one  minute  before  she  had  to!" 
Miss  Clay  opined,  with  grim  enjoyment,  as  one  who  knew.  "It's 
dredgery  and  debt,  that's  what  it  is!  I  borrowed  four  hundred 
dollars  two  years  ago,  and  three  hundred  two  years  before  that, 
and  what  with  rent  and  interest,  and  gas — I  wish  I'd  never  had 
it  turned  on,  but  we  had  that  fire,  when  my  blue  alpaca  was 
burned,  and  two  blankets,  five  years  ago.     .     .     ." 

»• 

There  was  a  most  pleasant  and  welcome  interruption:  Vic- 
toria Brewer,  with  her  hair  curled  up  by  the  rain,  and  in  her  old 
suit  and  last  winter's  hat,  opened  the  kitchen's  outside  door, 
and  was  suddenly  being  delightedly  kissed  and  laughed  over  by 
everyone. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  121 

"I've  only  got  about  half  an  hour — I'm  regularly  running 
away!"  she  said,  breezily.  "I'm  supposed  to  be  at  Aunt 
Fanny's,  but  she  wasn't  there,  and  it  was  so  dismal  and  bleak! 
Carra  has  a  toothache,  and  Maggie  was  crying  about  something, 
and  I  just  thought  I'd  rush  over  here  and  rush  back  before  it  is 
quite  dark!  Mama  sent  me  over  to  go  to  Quade  and  Strauts, 
and  Michel  Wand's  for  her." 

Everyone  was  splendid,  said  the  heartening  visitor  gaily. 
Mama  was  terrified  because  Bertie  was  beginning  to  like  Kitty 
Barbee,  but  Bertie  insisted  that  he  wasn't  ever  going  to  marry 
any  one! 

"That's  all  your  doing,  Nelly,"  said  Victoria,  with  vivacity, 
"you  mean  girl — you!  I  bet  it's  Davy  Dudley!  Oh,  and  my 
dear,  who  do  you  think  is  the  latest?  Esme!  Yes — actually, 
or  at  least  we  think  so.  She  met  a  man  named  Roscoe  Beale — 
isn't  it  a  perfectly  stunning  name? — at  Mrs.  Murchison's  tea. 
It  was  a  perfectly  gorgeous  tea,  and  I  must  say  that  Esme  looked 
wonderful.  And  if  he  didn't  come  way  over  to  call,  with  his 
mother — yesterday!  Mama  was  helping  Addie  with  the  parlour 
and  had  her  head  tied  up,  but  we  flew  round,  and  Esme  did  look 
so  nice!  Well,  there  may  be  nothing  in  it,  but  anyway  I  thought 
I'd  tell  you." 

Nelly  was  watching  her  with  very  bright  eyes,  but  now  she 
smiled  suddenly  and  said,  quickly: 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  it'll  happen.  Esme  is  the  sort  of  per- 
son that  ought  to  marry  a  rich  man!" 

"Anybody  is  the  sort  of  person  who  ought  to  marry  a  rich 
man!"  Lucy  said,  with  her  sharp  little  air  of  being  witty. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Aunt  Lucy!"  Victoria  said,  vivaciously. 
"The  man  I've  picked  out  is  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey!" 

"Vicky ?"     Nelly     questioned,     significantly.     And     as 

they  exchanged  a  look  Victoria  flushed  delightedly  and  con- 
fusedly and  said,  "Oh,  you  big  goose!  I'll  never  tell  you  any- 
thing again!  No,  of  course  it's  not  him.  He's  got  piles  of 
money,  anyway.     Aren't  you  awful!" 

"Ij)ok  here,  are  you  setting  up  a  lover  of  your  own?"  Lucy 
asked  curiously,  but  Victoria,  still  rosy,  only  looked  guiltily 
at  Nelly  and  laughed  again  as  she  said: 

"No.  No — it's  just — just  nonsense.  The — this — man — I've 
never  even  spoken  to  him!" 

"But  just  the  same "   Nelly  was  beginning.     But  Vic- 


122    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

toria  put  her  hand  over  her  cousin's  mouth,  and  laughter  in- 
terrupted them  both. 

"No,  you  hush,  Nelly!"  said  Victoria,  when  she  could  speak. 
"You  awful  girl,  you — Aunt  Lucy,  don't  let  her  say  it!" 

"All  right,"  Nelly  gurgled,  half-strangled.  "But  go  on,  tell 
us  more  news,  Vicky!     How's  Tina's  parson?" 

"Oh,  they  are  slower  than  death!"  Victoria  said  gaily,  and 
everybody  laughed.  "I  don't  believe  she's  seen  him  since 
Christmas — he  came  to  dinner  with  us  and  told  Bertie  that 
Mama  was  so  motherly.  I  said  mother-in-lawly  is  what  we're 
after.  However,  Tina  seems  perfectly  contented  to  have  it 
go  so  slowly,  and  now  of  course  we're  all  wondering  about 
Esme!" 

"It  would  be  awfully  nice  if  she  married  first "Nelly 

mused. 

"It  would  be  awfully  nice  if  somebody  got  married!"  Vic- 
toria said,  half  seriously,  with  a  great  sigh,  and  again  the  easily 
amused  company  found  her  amusing. 

"Oh,  we'll  all  get  married,  if  that's  all!"  Nelly  said,  dis- 
contentedly, with  sudden,  inexplicable  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Stay  and  have  supper,  Vicky,"  her  aunt  said,  affectionately. 
But  the  girl  was  suddenly  reminded  that  she  must  go. 

"You  know  Uncle  Rob  is  in  old  Rossi's  place,"  she  said,  re- 
viewing the  news.  "He  and  Aunt  Ella  are  probably  going  to 
have  a  flat  in  Jones  Street,  and  Aunt  Ella  has  sent  east  for  some 
silver  and  things,  and  a  Copley  painting  of  her  grandfather,  if 
you  please " 

"A  flat — that's  just  having  your  kitchen  and  everything 
on  one  floor,  isn't  it?"  Harry  asked,  deeply  interested.  "I 
shouldn't  think  that  would  be  comfortable!" 

"Nothing  like  this  cottage,  with  ten  floors!"  Nelly  said  mis- 
chievously. 

"Ah,  well,  but  we  have  the  yard  and  the  garden  here,  Bootsy!" 
he  said  quickly.  Nelly  and  Victoria,  who  had  resumed  her  wraps, 
went  into  the  girls'  cold  bedroom,  and  Nelly  locking  her  arms 
about  the  other  girl,  and  with  eyes  misting  again,  said,  a  little 
aimlessly: 

"Don't  go,  Vicky!     Stay  and  we  can  talk!" 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to!  But  I  hadn't  even  planned  for  this,  dar- 
ling!" Victoria  suddenly  felt  that  she  dearly  loved  pretty, 
troubled  Nelly,  and  she  longed  to  stay. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  123 

Nelly,  looking  downward,  buttoned  and  unbuttoned  the 
uppermost  buttons  of  Victoria's  shabby  old  coat. 

"Anything  wrong?"  Victoria  said.  Nelly  threw  back  her 
head,  blinked,  and  said  lightly:  "Oh,  no!" 

"Is  it  somebody  bothering  you?"  Victoria  asked.  Nelly 
violently  shook  her  head.     "Is  it  Davy?"  questioned  Victoria. 

But  for  some  reason  Nelly  would  not  admit  that  it  was  Davy. 
She  denied  Davy. 

"Vicky,"  she  said,  "tell  me  something.  You  know  what  I 
mean — is  that — that  Piute — Ruy  da  Sa — still  following  you 
about?" 

"My  dear — yesterday  morning  at  the  door,  the  side  door, 
Addie  found  a  basket — an  Indian  basket — with  about  two  dozen 
fresh  eggs  in  it!"  Victoria  said  laughing.  "Mama  questioned 
her,  and  it  appears  that  Lotta  saw  our  young  friend — she  didn't 
know  his  name,  of  course,  but  she  said,  'that  wild-looking  boy 
from  the  Senorita  Tasheiras' — saw  him  riding  away." 

"Vicky!     And  haven't  you  told  your  mother?" 

"Why,  what  can  I  tell  her,  Nelly?  I've  met  the  man  twice, 
hanging  about,  but  I  never  spoke  to  him,  and  how  do  I 
know  that  it's  me  he's — courting,  if  you  call  it  courting!" 

"Because  you  do  know,  perfectly  well!"  Nelly  said  delightfully 
stern.     "Didn't  he  give  you  the  heart — and  the  glass  cross?" 

"A  plush  heart  pincushion  and  a  little  glass  cross!  No  card, 
and  no  message,  just  shoved  them  into  my  hand,  coming  out 
of  the  station!"  Victoria  said,  with  exhilaration. 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  were  the  best  things  he  had,  and  per- 
haps he  doesn't  know  how  to  write  a  card,"  Nelly  said  reflect- 
ively.    But  Victoria  bridled  a  little  at  this. 

"Doesn't  know  how  to  write  a  card!  Why,  Ruy  da  Sa  went 
through  grammar  school,  and  one  year  of  high!"  she  protested. 

"He  did?"  Nelly  marvelled. 

"Certainly  he  did!" 

"But  he  always  looks  so  rough,  scrambling  over  the  ranch," 
Nelly  protested.  "Vicky,  you — you  wouldn't  really  consider 
him?"  she  stammered. 

"No,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  do  that"  Victoria  said  slowly. 
"Of  course,  I'd  perfectly  adore  to  live  up  there  on  the  ranch, 
with  all  the  pigs  and  cows  and  dogs  and  chickens,  and  Portu- 
guese babies,"  she  admitted. 

"Oh,  Vicky,  you  wouldn't!     Why,  the  very  smell  of  the 


i24    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

kitchens  is  enough  for  me!"  Nelly  said.  "If  you  feel  that  way, 
you'd  much  better  marry  Davy  Dudley,  who  is  at  least 
white!"  she  added,  perversely.  Victoria  gave  her  an  illumin- 
ated look. 

"Nelly,  what  made  you  say  that?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing!"     Nelly  laughed,  guiltily. 

"But  something  did!"  Victoria  persisted. 

"No,  truly!"     And  now  Nelly  was  curious.     "Why?" 

Victoria  gave  a  cautious  glance  toward  the  closed  kitchen 
door  and  then  said  quickly: 

"Because  I  admire  and  like  Davy  Dudley — yes,  I  do.  I  like 
him — awfully ! " 

Suddenly  inexplicable  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and  she  fingered 
the  collar  of  Nelly's  little  kitchen  dress  with  meticulous,  care. 
Nelly  was  stupefied. 

"But  Vicky — but  Vicky — has  he  ever — in    any  way " 

she  began. 

"No,  he  hasn't!"  laughed  Victoria,  angrily  flashing  away  the 
one  tear  that  had  fallen.  "Once  he  did  me  the  honour  to  tell  me 
that  he  liked  you — but  that  was  ever  so  long  ago,  and  I  never 
could  be  jealous  oiyou,  Nelly.  But  I've  fancied  sometimes  that 
he  liked  me — of  course  I  almost  never  see  him — and  of  course 
Papa  wouldn't  care  how  poor  the  man  was,  if  he  was  a  man  we 
all  liked,  like  Davy — But  I'm  a  fool  to  speak  about  it,  of  course," 
Victoria  floundered  on,  thrilled  to  the  marrow  at  this  unexpected 
confidence,  "and  swear — swear " 

Nelly,  bewildered,  was  duly  swearing,  when  her  mother's 
voice  was  heard. 

"Girls — Vicky!  It's  nearly  five,  dear.  Come,  girls — stop 
chattering  in  that  cold  room!" 

Out  they  came,  and  Victoria  was  embraced  in  farewells.  Her 
grandfather  was  well? — That  was  good.  And  Aunt  Fanny  was 
well,  and  very  busy  about  the  big  Charity  Bazaar?  That  was 
good.  Love  to  everyone  at  home,  and  perhaps  if  Uncle  Harry 
was  better,  Aunt  Lucy  and  Georgie  might  come  over  to  San 
Rafael  on  Sunday. 

"And  Alice  and  I  will  take  this  old  man  out  to  the  sunshine 
in  the  Park,"  Nelly  said,  kissing  the  thinning  hair  that  was 
beginning  to  give  Harry's  forehead  a  somewhat  spiritual  look. 
He  brightened  at  once.  This  was  Thursday;  he  certainly  would 
be  quite  well  by  Sunday. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    125 

Lucy  said  vigorously  that  he  surely  would  be  well  if  he 
would  only  spend  to-morrow  and  Saturday  in  the  house.  But 
Harry  shook  his  head. 

"If  Barrell  had  been  willing  to  have  me  do  that,  he  would 
have  suggested  it,"  he  said.     "Isn't  she  pretty,  Lucy?'' 

This  was  said  of  Victoria,  who  went  out  radiant  into  the 
gathering  dark. 

She  was  out  so  little  alone,  especially  after  dusk,  that  the  two 
street-car  rides  seemed  a  great  adventure.  She  had  to  change 
cars  at  Tenth  Street,  and  joggled  comfortably  along  Larkin, 
past  the  monstrous  failure  of  the  new  City  Hall,  and  the  Me- 
chanics' Pavilion,  where  there  were  annual  fairs.  Every  one 
of  her  wet  and  crowding  neighbours  interested  Victoria,  and  at 
Sutter  Street  she  almost  gasped  with  pleasure  at  the  brightly 
coloured  lights  in  the  windows  of  Wakelee's  Pharmacy.  Her 
uncle's  compliment,  her  confidence  regarding  Davy — the  very 
spoken  words  of  which  seemed  to  give  the  matter  body — Nelly's 
questions  about  the  ridiculous  Ruy,  Esme's  affair  and  Tina's 
affair  combined  to  make  her  feel  that  life  was  romantic  and 
thrilling,  and  even  the  unwelcome,  languorous  glances  of  a 
moustached  young  man  in  the  corner  of  the  car,  sent  straight 
into  her  innocent  and  offended  eyes,  helped  her  mood  of  adven- 
ture and  excitement. 

She  had  had  time  to  fling  off  her  outer  garments  before  her 
aunt  returned  from  an  exhausting  committee  meeting,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  Charity  Bazaar,  and  presently  both  women  went 
harmoniously  down  to  dinner,  Victoria's  arm  about  her  Aunt 
Fanny's  waist,  Victoria's  dark  rich  hair  still  curling  into  damp 
rings,  and  her  face  still  glowing,  from  her  escapade. 

Aunt  Fanny's  house  was  always  close;  it  had  certain  smells 
of  its  own;  clothy,  carpety  smells  that  her  nieces  always  associa- 
ted with  the  sleepy,  decorous  evenings  they  spent  with  her.  The 
marble-topped  tables,  with  their  tidies  and  their  lamps,  were 
always  in  the  same  places,  the  chairs  stood  squarely  upon  the 
padded  carpets,  clocks  ticked  steadily  in  the  dusted,  peaceful 
order  of  the  long  parlours.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  compen- 
sating sense  of  adventure  in  being  so  far  from  home  after  dark, 
but  even  to  Victoria's  bounding  senses  visiting  Aunt  Fanny  was 
dull.  The  coke  fire  burned  in  a  small  grate  heavily  rodded  with 
steel  bars;  between  the  richly  draped  lace  curtains  morning  sun- 


126    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

light  fell  brightly  upon  the  quiet  breakfast  table;  there  were  un- 
familiar noises  of  street  cries,  and  of  Saint  Brigid's  bells;  there 
was  unfamiliar  silence  within,  where  Fanny  went  noiselessly 
about.  Maggie  was  bullied  into  creaking  consideration,  and 
Carra  was  always  a  shadow. 

There  was  a  velvet  box  in  the  parlour,  with  a  stereoscope, 
and  a  score  of  little  double  photographs  for  it — one  of  Fanny 
and  May  in  the  Yosemite  Valley,  with  the  Bridal  Veil  Falls  for  a 
background.  And  there  was  the  piano,  to  be  touched  only 
when  Grandfather  was  awake,  and  a  massive  heavy  Inferno  of 
Dante,  with  Dore  plates,  and  a  smaller,  oblong  book,  Schiller's 
Bell,  with  illustrations  in  the  lovely,  flowing  outlines  of  Flaxman. 
The  Brewer  girls  had  looked  through  both  a  thousand  times,  and 
looked  through  Aunt  Fanny's  heavy,  big  bound  books  of  music, 
with  "Fanny  Crabtree"  in  gold  on  the  covers,  and  with  what 
that  lady  herself  frankly  admitted  was  "utter  rubbish"  bound 
in  with  the  better  selections — "Potpourris"  from  "Faust"  and 
"Ernani."  "Brother's  Fainting  at  the  Door,"  was  an  old  Civil 
War  song;  "Please  Save  Me,  Kind  Sir,  I  Don't  Want  to  be 
Drowned!"  another  favourite  of  about  the  same  date.  And 
Fanny's  nieces  could  still  find,  pencilled  on  margins,  faint  re- 
minders of  that  giddy  and  girlish  past  of  which  she  told  them: 
"Isn't  he  a  bore?"  some  youthful  hand  had  rebelliously  written 
on  "The  Brave  Newfoundland  Dog,"  and  "I  bet  he  pops  the 
question  to  Minny  to-night"  still  adorned  "Bright  Things  Can 
Never  Die."  When  Fanny  saw  these  youthful  indiscretions,  she 
coloured  and  laughed  uncomfortably,  erasing  them  vigorously. 

She  had  all  a  single  woman's  nervous  apprehension  of  censure, 
a  sort  of  eager  sensitiveness.  No  husband  or  children  ever  hav- 
ing dispossessed  her,  she  was  still  the  centre  of  her  own  universe, 
still  flaunting  girlhood's  bright  and  ignorant  complacencies,  and 
as  positive  and  swift  in  her  judgment  of  wife  and  matron  as  she 
was  of  the  state  of  life  she  knew.  One  of  Fanny's  firmest 
convictions  was  that  she  was  never  deceived  or  outwitted  by 
any  one — friend,  relative,  or  servant.  Her  apt  answers  to  car- 
conductors,  policemen,  and  the  sales-persons  in  shops  were  a 
source  of  great  satisfaction  to  her.  The  light  brown,  freckled 
skin  would  redden,  and  Fanny  might  beat  her  nose  agitatedly, 
but  she  was  rarely  worsted. 

"I  turned  very  quietly  to  this  man — I'd  never  seen  him  be- 
fore," she  would  say,  "'Are  you  an  inspector?'  I  said.      "Yes, 





CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  127 

madam/  he  said.  Then  you  saw  exactly  what  occurred  here/ 
I  said.     'I  wish  you  would  take  this  man's  number  and  report 

him!     And '  I  said,  T  shall  stop  at  the  car-company's  office 

in  a  day  or  two  and  see  what  they  have  done!'  Of  course  the 
conductor  then  was  all  apologies — he  hadn't  understood — he 
thought  this  and  thought  that! " 

"Of  course,"  the  listening  Esme  or  Tina  would  say  triumph- 
antly. 

"Ah,  but  you  can't  do  that!"  Fanny  would  say,  flushing 
and  bridling.  "For  the  sake  of  other  passengers  it  would  be 
perfectly  idiotic  to  allow  such  goings  on!" 

Or  perhaps  it  would  be  Maggie  who  aroused  her  wrath. 

"'Maggie/  I  said,"  the  report  would  run,  "'to  prove  to  you 
that  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  I  just  went  to  the  dirty- 
clothes-basket  and  took  out  this  apron.  You  say  that  I  made 
you  change  a  perfectly  clean  apron.  Look  at  this  apron!  Tell 
me  honestly  if  you  think  it  is  perfectly  clean — honestly,  I  want 
your  opinion!  Look  at  that  spot — look  at  this  soot.  Is  that 
perfectly  clean?     Tell  me  frankly '" 

And  so  on  and  on,  perhaps  lowering  her  voice  when  the  self- 
conscious  and  vanquished  Maggie  entered  the  room.  Often 
Fanny,  upon  whom  this  peculiarity  naturally  grew  with  years, 
would  vent  upon  Maggie  the  exasperation  she  felt  toward  the 
silently  ubiquitous  Carra.  Always  she  was  on  the  alert  for  of- 
fence, watching  ticket-sellers  shrewdly,  quick  to  question 
butchers  and  bakers,  and  ready  to  answer  them.  She  never 
gave  to  street  beggars,  remarking  invariably  that  they  were  al- 
ways persons  of  property,  and  to  any  friend  who  solicited  alms 
from  her,  Fanny  usually  answered  nervously  and  cheerfully 
that  she  had  her  own  charities — which  indeed  she  did,  for  she 
could  be  open-handed  when  she  chose.  It  was  one  of  Fanny's 
luxuries  to  be  among  the  first  to  subscribe  to  a  Fair,  a  new  theo- 
logical magazine,  or  what  she  called  the  deserving  poor. 

Her  aunt's  legacy  had  come  at  the  critical  time  when  she 
was  passing  from  a  spoiled  and  admired  girlhood  into  dull  mid- 
dle age;  and  the  Fanny  whose  saucy  beauty  and  charm  had  won 
her  great  consideration,  had  that  consideration  still,  on  other 
terms.  If  she  had  had  to  look  to  her  father  for  every  penny, 
she  would  now  have  become  simply  the  superfluous  aunt  in  a 
sister's  family,  but  Aunt  Jenny's  timely  thousands  had  re- 
established her,  or  rather  continued  her  establishment,  in  her 


128  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

own  esteem.  A  rich  maiden  lady  held  a  very  different  position 
from  that  of  a  penniless  old  maid.  Fanny  had  always  been 
happily  assured  and  self-confident;  she  never  had  any  reason 
to  consider  any  other  mental  attitude. 

To-night  the  little  coke  fire  burned  on,  Fanny  rocked  noise- 
lessly, Victoria  turned  page  after  page  of  "The  Sister's  Story," 
which  lugubrious  yet  compelling  history  of  tears,  changes,  con-    j 
sumption,  and  death,  she  had  found  on  her  aunt's  table.     The    I 
old  man,  sunk  in  his  leather  chair,  was  pushed  up  close  under  the* 
bright  light  of  a  gas  drop-lamp,  slowly  and  deliberately  playing 
solitaire.     Now   and  then  he  interrupted  the   silence  with   a 
shifting  of  his  body  and  a  sharp  "hem!"  and  sometimes,  when   ! 
he  was  pleased  with  the  fall  of  the  cards,  he  hummed  gaily,  with 
his  lips  set  as  if  for  whistling,  "Too — too — too!" 

Victoria  interrupted  her  reading  for  a  tearing  but  noiseless 
yawn,  and  looked  over  at  her  aunt.  Miss  Fanny  had  her  glasses 
on,  her  lips  were  set  firmly  together,  but  she  moved  them  oc- 
casionally as  she  read.  She  was  reading  a  religious  work  by 
Phillips  Brooks.  Victoria  knew  that*  her  aunt  had  travelled 
with  the  older  Aunt  Jenny  years  ago;  she  thought  of  the  remem- 
bered offers  of  marriage  Miss  Fanny  had  received,  of  the  excite- 
ment of  learning  that  one  had  fallen  heir  to  a  fortune,  of  going 
up  a  steamer  gang-plank,  and  of  seeing  Rome  and  Paris.  Vic- 
toria resolved  that  if  she  herself  ever  had  half  such  opportunities, 
she  would  feel  herself  fortunate.  Certainly  if  any  man  at  all 
eligible  ever  asked  her  to  marry  him,  she  would  do  it,  and  as  for 
travel ! 

The  girl's  longest  journey  had  been  to  Sacramento,  a  hundred 
miles  away.  That  was  eight  years  ago  now,  and  Victoria  felt  a 
pang  as  she  recalled  it:  the  exciting  start,  with  her  father  and 
mother,  her  packed  satchel,  and  the  overnight  stay  with  an 
affectionate  elderly  family  friend  called  "Aunt  Tally,"  by  all 
the  world.  Why  her  heart  should  ache  remembering  the  eager 
fifteen  years'  old  Victoria  she  hardly  knew;  perhaps  she  had 
felt  more  sure,  in  that  very  morning  of  adventure,  that  the  next 
eight  years  would  bring  her  nearer  her  dreams. 

She  fell  into  a  dream  now,  in  which  her  grandfather  suddenly 
died  and  was  laid  away,  and  her  Aunt  Fanny  enthusiastically 
selected  herself,  Victoria,  for  a  few  years  of  travel.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  she  did  not  admire  Aunt  Fanny  as  she  once  had,  and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  129 

as  Esme  and  Tina  still  did.  Sometimes  Aunt  Fanny's  manner, 
in  public  places,  made  Victoria  flush  apologetically  and  uncom- 
fortably, and  sometimes  she  was  guilty  of  a  secret  utterance  of 
the  phrase  " crank!"  in  reference  to  her  relative.  But  still  she 
dreamed — she  was  in  Italy,  tilting  a  parasol  like  Lily  Duval- 
ette's;  and  a  handsome  and  boyish  young  man,  a  "steamer  ac- 
quaintance," was  beside  her — Aunt  Fanny  would  have  to  write 

Mama  that  apparently  our  Vicky  had  given  her  heart  away 

I .  "Aunt  Fanny     .     .     ." 

Wick    ...-". 

"Did  you  ever  think  you  would  like  to  run  a  bakery?" 

Fanny  eyed  her  humorously,  ready  to  laugh. 

"Why,  my  dear?     Are  your  ambitions  running  that  way?" 

"Well,"  Victoria  said,  with  a  warm  yawn.  "I  think  it 
would  be  fun!  At  least,  when  I  stopped  on  Polk  Street  for  the 
rolls,  to-night,  everything  was  in  such  awful  disorder  at  Mul- 
ler's.  And  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  I'd  love  to  straighten 
it  all  out,  the  rolls  and  cookies  and  biscuits — it  looked  sort  of 
fun!" 

"What  a  delightful  surprise  for  society!"  Fanny  said,  satiri- 
cally, "Miss  Victoria  Brewer  in  a  bakery!" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  society,"  Victoria  countered,  suddenly  an- 
tagonized.    "I'd  like  to  do  something!" 

There  was  a  pause,  which  Fanny  filled  with  a  superior 
smile.     The  hint  of  opposition  annoyed  her. 

"I  advise  you  to  confine  your  cooking  to  your  mother's  kit- 
chen," she  said,  significantly.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I  haven't 
noticed  any  particular  enthusiasm  in  Miss  Vicky  Brewer,  there! 
When  Addie's  out,  I  don't  remember  any  particular  willingness 
on  your  part  to  take  Tina's  or  Lou's  share  of  the  work,  eh, 
Vicky?  That  comes  a  little  nearer  home,  doesn't  it?"  And 
Fanny  laughed  heartily,  and  sent  a  sly  look  at  her  discomfited 
niece.  "Maggie!"  she  called,  an  instant  later,  as  a  lumbering 
noise  was  heard  in  the  dining  room.  Maggie  came  to  the  door. 
"Maggie,  have  you  been  out?"  she  asked,  in  displeased  sur- 
prise. For  a  light  rain  was  again  falling,  and  Maggie  breathed 
of  the  fresh,  wet  out-of-doors. 

"I  wint  to  the  corner  wid  Lizzie,"  said  Maggie,  breathing 
hard. 

"Oh,  has  Lizzie  been  here?" 

"She  run  in,"  Maggie  admitted,  after  thought. 


130     CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Fanny  continued  to  look  at  her  steadily  through  her  glasses; 
there  was  a  brief  silence. 

"Does  Mrs.  de  Paulo  let  Lizzie  have  a  night  off  whenever 
Lizzie  wishes  it?"  she  asked,  quietly.  Maggie  was  unequal  to 
the  question,  and  after  an  awkward  pause,  tittered  uncom- 
fortably. 

"She  just  run  in,"  she  submitted. 

"Because  if  Mrs.  de  Paulo  does"  Fanny  pursued,  "she  is 
proving  herself  a  very  poor  friend  to  Lizzie,  as  \^\tl\^  will  find 
out.  That  simply  spoils  a  girl;  and  when  she  gets  another 
place,  what  happens?  Oh,  she  has  to  be  running  over  to  see 
Maggie — and  Bessy — and  this  one  and  that  one,  and  she  is 
unhappy  when  she  can't.  Then  she  neglects  her  work,  and 
mopes,  and  is  discharged!" 

"Yes'm,"  Maggie  said,  when  Fanny  paused. 

"Bring  us  some  more  coal,  please,"  Fanny  said,  after  an- 
other brief  silence,  and  they  could  follow  Maggie's  thumping 
progress  down  the  basement  stairs,  her  heavy  shovel  in  the 
coal,  and  her  returning  steps.  Victoria,  who  had  not  enjoyed 
the  little  scene,  took  the  opportunity,  when  Maggie's  rough 
head  was  close  to  her,  over  the  scuttle,  to  ask,  in  a  low  tone, 

"How's  your  little  brother  that  has  the  hip  disease?" 

"They're  goin'  to  take  him  to  the  hospital,  the  way  maybe 
they'll  have  a  right  to  cut  it,"  Maggie  said,  with  ready  grati- 
tude. But  when  Victoria  followed  her  question  with  another, 
she  was  horrified  to  see  that  the  rosy  face  was  running  with 
tears  and  the  big  mouth  was  too  unsteady  for  an  answer. 

"I  wouldn't  talk  to  Maggie  when  she's  in  here,  darling," 
said  Miss  Fanny,  when  Maggie  was  gone.  "You  see  it  upsets 
her — she's  going  on  Sunday  to  see  poor  little  Hugh,  and  until 
then  it's  only  cruelty  to  remind  her  of  him.  More  than  that — 
like  all  of  them! — she's  only  too  ready  to  take  advantage  of  any 
familiarity!" 

"I  know "  Victoria  murmured. 

Silence  fell  again.  It  seemed  to  the  visitor  that  these  even- 
ings had  no  beginning  and  no  end.  The  tick  of  the  fire,  the 
measured  punctual  clicking  of  the  clock,  the  purr  of  the  lamp, 
and  the  far  sounds  of  cable  cars  in  the  streets  and  boat  whistles 
on  the  bay  made  her  feel  actually  stupid. 

At  home  there  were  a  hundred  activities  that  never  entered 
here.     Supper  was  later,  less  formal,  and  more  drawn-out,  after- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  131 

ward  sometimes  the  girls  sang  for  an  hour  or  two,  played  Old 
Maid  or  Casino,  or  sat  about  the  dining  table  laughing  over 
"writing  games. "  Then  Victoria  loved  to  copy,  and  loved  to 
work  out  various  diagrams,  sometimes  a  plan  of  the  village,  or 
the  drawing  of  an  ideal  house.  Sometimes  she  would  get  a 
volume  of  the  Encyclopaedia,  and  drift  along  from  Samoa  to 
Sewing  machine,  occasionally  coming  upon  some  article  that 
might  be  skimmed  with  guilty  haste,  her  finger  meanwhile 
keeping  track  of  the  innocuous  essay  near  by  that  would  be 
shown  her  mother  in  case  of  a  surprise.  Then  Bertie  some- 
times brought  friends  in,  and  there  was  candy-pulling,  or 
walking,  if  the  night  was  fine,  or  there  was  a  horse  or  cow  sick, 
and  a  visitation  to  the  stables,  or  the  girls  trooped  up  to  the 
attic  and  dressed  themselves  up  for  charades.  Tina's  musical 
education  had  reached  the  point  now  where  she  could  play  duets 
with  Victoria,  and  they  loved  to  rush  through  the  "Poet  and 
Peasant"  and  "Die  Schone  Melusine,"  their  father  applaud- 
ing them  with  the  same  amiability  with  which  he  applauded 
charades,  sampled  their  candy,  and  even  joined  in  their  writing 
games. 

But  at  Aunt  Fanny's  time  went  slowly.  Yet  somehow  all 
the  girls  felt  a  thrill  when  their  mother  said,  thoughtfully: 

"You  might  stay  in  town  that  night,  if  Aunt  Fanny  asks 
you,"  and  they  all  packed  satchels  for  this  experience  with  a 
real  sense  of  adventure. 

To-night,  as  the  clock  struck  the  half-hour  after  nine,  Vic- 
toria yawned  again,  shut  her  book,  and  loitered  to  the  table,  to 
watch  her  grandfather's  cards.  He  was  playing  a  difficult 
game  called  "Napoleon,"  the  laying  out  of  which  took  far 
more  time  than  the  play.  Yet  he  delayed  over  the  play,  some- 
times laying  his  veined  old  ivory  hand  upon  a  card  to  remind 
him  of  the  possible  shifting. 

"You  can't  put  that  King  underneath,"  Victoria  presently 
objected. 

"Well,  sometimes  I — I  move  a  card,"  the  old  man  confessed. 

"Cheating!"  the  girl  reproached  him,  relentlessly. 

For  answer  he  fixed  his  amused  eyes  upon  her,  and  winked 
one  mischievously. 

"Why,  you  bad  old  man!"  Victoria  said,  "you  ought  to  be 
in  San  Quentin!" 

"Noo — Vicky,  noo — Vicky!"  he  pleaded  absently,  absorbed 


i3 2  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

in  his  game.     But  when  even  his  illicit  manipulation  failed, 
and  he  was  shuffling  again  he  said: 

"How's  Baker's  little  girl  coming  along?" 

"Lily?  Oh,  she's  fine,"  Victoria  said.  "She  and  her  hus- 
band are  living  at  the  Palace,  and  Mr.  Duvalette  is  just  coining 
money!     She's  awfully  happy." 

"His  boys  are  spending  it  as  fast  as  he's  making  it,"  said 
Reuben  Crabtree. 

"You  mean  her  brothers,"  Victoria  adjusted  him  gently. 
"Tom  and  Younger  are  terrors!  But  isn't  there  lots  and  lots  of 
money  there,  Grandpa?"  she  asked.  She  would  have  been  glad 
of  a  denial,  but  her  grandfather  muttered  "Tons  of  it!"  as  he 
went  on  playing. 

"Did  Uncle  Rob  get  the  Foster  contract?"  she  asked,  pres- 
ently. She  was  under  the  impression  that  Uncle  Rob  had  not 
distinguished  himself  in  this  matter,  and  loyalty  to  her  father 
made  her  willing  to  enlarge  upon  the  subject.  But  somewhat 
to  her  confusion  her  grandfather  chuckled  an  affirmative. 

"Landed  it  at  about  four  o'clock  this  afternoon!"  he  said. 

"I  thought  Foster — "  Victoria  hesitated.  "I  thought 
Foster — "  she  began  again,  and  stopped.  "H'm!"  she  said,* 
discontentedly. 

"Bob  is  a  good  man — a  very  good  man,"  his  father  said. 
"Fanny,"  he  asked,  "been  to  see  Mrs.  Bob  in  the  new  quar- 
ters?" 

Fanny  looked  with  her  expression  of  ready  self-justification 
at  her  father. 

"You  would  have  me  walk  in  upon  the  poor  woman  before 
her  beds  were  up!"  she  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  be 
very  welcome  if  I  did!  But  I  am  going  to-morrow,  and  I 
thought  I'd  take  Victoria  with  me!" 

"Music  lesson  at  eleven,"  Victoria  reminded  her. 

"Oh,  is  that  so,  my  dear,  and  I  suppose  your  poor  stupid 
aunt  had  forgotten  all  about  that!"  Fanny,  who  did  not  like 
even  so  faint  a  suggestion  of  advice,  said  teasingly.  "Well,  if 
your  royal  highness  can  manage  to  get  up  for  an  eight  o'clock 
breakfast,  perhaps  we  can  manage  both!"  she  ended  lightly. 

"Possibly  I  can!"  Victoria  said,  in  the  same  vein,  sitting 
on  the  arm  of  Fanny's  chair,  and  resting  her  head  against  her 
aunt's  well-arranged,  graying  hair.  They  both  turned  as  Carra 
came  in,  and  rose  to  go  up  to  bed  themselves,  as  she  gently  but 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  133 

firmly  assisted  the  stiff  old  man  to  his  feet.  Victoria  glanced 
into  his  room  as  they  passed  it;  the  bed  was  neatly  turned  down, 
the  pillows  waiting.  There  was  a  coke  fire  up  here,  too,  medi- 
cine bottles  stood  in  a  row  on  the  table.  The  girl  felt  herself 
almost  sick  with  sleepiness  and  boredom,  but  when  she  and 
Fanny  were  undressed,  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  while 
Fanny  stood  leaning  against  the  door  jamb,  and  they  talked 
for  a  long  time.  Victoria,  in  a  mood  of  confidence  and  ex- 
pansion, told  the  older  woman  of  her  hopes  of  travel,  or  being 
a  nurse,  even  of  marriage. 

"It's  just  that  I — I  feel  I  want  to  live!"  Victoria  said. 

"Well,  when  I  was  your  age  I  wouldn't  have  had  any  trouble 
about  that !"  Miss  Fanny  said,  of  marriage.  But  of  other  pros- 
pects she  warned  her  niece  as  Victoria's  mother  had  so  often 
warned  her.  "Don't  be  strong-minded,  dear.  Men  don't 
like  women  who  are  self-assertive  and  independent,  Vicky; 
truly  they  don't.     A  man  always  likes  to  feel  the  superior!" 

If  the  evening  had  been  dull,  yet  it  was  very  pleasant,  in  the 
spring-like  February  morning,  to  loiter  along  Polk  Street 
marketing  with  Aunt  Fanny.  Vicky  liked  the  clean  little  gro- 
cery, the  tea  shop  where  they  chose  a  Japanese  teacup  for  their 
long  saved  twenty  certificates,  and  the  butcher  who  chopped 
meat  so  expertly  on  a  block  that  was  the  slice  of  a  great  tree, 
worn  spongy  at  the  top  from  long  use.  All  butchers  gave  away 
soup  vegetables  with  the  soup  meat  at  five  cents  a  pound,  and 
Fanny  picked  out  her  carrots  and  celery  as  sternly  as  if  she 
were  paying  full  price  for  them.  The  air  was  soft  and  sweet; 
last  traces  of  fog  were  rising  into  the  blue,  and  if  there 
was  still  a  trace  of  winter  chill  in  the  shade,  in  the  sun 
they  found  a  delicious  warmth.  The  hilly  city  of  homes 
looked  cheerful  and  charming;  there  were  flowers  already  in 
the  gardens,  and  the  people  who  came  and  went  on  cars  and 
crossings  waved  their  furled  umbrellas  gaily  at  each  other,  as 
they  picked  their  way  on  the  drying  pavements. 

Mrs.  Robert  Crabtree  had  selected  a  five-room  flat  for  her 
first  experience  in  western  housekeeping,  and  Victoria  was  en- 
chanted with  the  novelty  of  living  on  one  compact  floor.  They 
laughed  as  they  climbed  the  long  flight  of  enclosed  stairs  that 
led  up  to  the  flat,  and  both  the  visitors  exclaimed  with  pleasure 
at  the  wonderful  view  that  lay  beneath  the  windows.     The 


i34  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

street  was  so  hilly  here  that  they  seemed  far  higher  than  they 
were,  and  could  look  down  on  near  roofs  and  far  shipping,  all 
steaming  in  the  heartening  sunshine.  Victoria  identified  the 
Palace  Hotel  and  the  "shot  tower,"  and  said  that  she  saw  the 
"ten-ten"  boat  for  Saucelito,  bravely  setting  forth  from  its 
slip,  with  a  ribbon  of  foam  following  it. 

Ella  had  furnished  the  place  charmingly,  with  some  new 
and  many  old  things,  and  Victoria  saw  here  for  the  first  time  a 
"treasure"  picked  up  from  the  old  second-hand  shops  in  Mission 
Street. 

"But  second-hand,  Aunt  Ella!"  she  ejaculated. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  can  often  get  delightful  things  second- 
hand! This  tray — now.  I  don't  know  who  ever  brought  it 
round  the  Horn,  but  I  was  so  delighted  to  find  it!"  Ella  was 
sure  of  her  ground  here,  for  her  sister's  sister-in-law  had  re- 
cently impressed  her  with  Pembroke  chairs  and  Old  Blue  cups, 
just  as  she  was  now  impressing  Victoria.  She  blinked,  and 
settled  her  glasses,  and  while  Fanny  experienced  a  sort  of 
combined  discomfort  and  contempt  at  this  new  domestic  fad, 
Victoria  secretly  determined  to  enlist  Esme  for  some  second- 
hand prowlings  of  their  own. 

But  besides  these  acquisitions,  Ella  had  very  nice  upholstered 
mahogany  chairs,  and  quite  an  imposing  amount  of  silver 
spoons,  two  or  three  old  paintings,  and  a  framed  Family  Tree, 
done  in  delicate  ink  outline,  with  all  the  names  written  in 
clearly  and  finely.  And  from  this  document  it  would  seem 
that  Ella  came  of  splendid  stock  indeed.  Victoria  pored  over 
it,  fascinated. 

"Aunt  Ella,  were  your  ancestors  really  on  the  Mayflower?" 

"That  one  was!"  Ella  said,  briskly  incisive,  looking  in- 
terestedly at  the  chart.  "And  my  mother's  uncle,  the  head  of 
our ,  family  in  America,  was  too.  And  you  see  here,  where 
Jabez  Cutter  married  Thomasine  Herriet — her  grandfather 
was  a  Baldwin,  who  was  the  ward  of  Captain  John  Smith." 

It  was  fascinating  to  the  ardent,  eager  girl.  She  decided 
she  would  work  out  a  family  chart  of  her  own.  Mama  was 
always  so  sure  of  the  family's  distinction. 

"If  you  write  to — there  is  a  society,  and  I'll  remember  the 
name  of  it  presently! — they'll  tell  you  at  once  just  what  branch 
you  belong  to,  and  what  the  collateral  lines  are,"  Ella  said, 
looking  from  the  family  tree  to  Victoria  and  settling  her  glasses. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    135 

"Victoria  has  great  ambitions,  you  must  know,"  said  Fanny, 
not  very  kindly,  for  she  felt  a  trifle  out  of  all  this.  "What 
were  you  telling  me  last  night  Vicky — that  you  want  to  live, 
wasn't  that  it?" 

Victoria  coloured,  but  more  in  embarrassment  than  resent- 
ment. Whenever  she  said  anything  in  confidence  to  any  one, 
even  to  her  mother,  it  was  usually  betrayed,  and  she  had  come 
to  feel  herself  rather  stupidly  outspoken.  However,  Aunt 
Ella,  as  was  half  the  time  the  case,  merely  looked  rather  vaguely 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  resumed  her  usual  calm  air 
of  reserve.     And  just  then  Aunt  Lucy  came  in. 

Aunt  Lucy,  broad  and  square  and  cheerful  looking,  was 
breathless  from  the  stairs,  and  she  looked,  as  usual,  somewhat 
shabby  as  to  attire,  but  her  frog-like  eyes  smiled  even  before 
she  got  her  breath.  She  had  great  confidence  in  her  own  taste 
in  dress,  and  turned  and  sponged  and  altered  her  garments 
interminably,  piecing  them  with  bits  of  oriental  embroidery, 
vari-coloured  silks  or  laces,  in  a  manner  considered  by  her 
family  slightly  bizarre.  But  she  always  looked  comfortable, 
and  enjoyed  so  much  her  own  manipulation  of  odd  bits  of  fur 
and  brocade  that  nothing  could  be  further  from  the  onlookers' 
minds  than  either  pity  or  doubt. 

She  in  turn  exclaimed  at  the  view  and  approved  of  the 
flat.  Ella  was  not  going  to  have  a  maidservant  at  present, 
which  her  sisters-in-law  approved,  not  until  Rob's  plans  were 
more  settled;  still  she  managed  to  impress  them  with  a  certain 
sureness  and  poise,  a  certain  almost  wordless  and  perfectly 
pleasant  superiority.  Victoria  had  never  seen  finger-bowls  or 
carver-rests  before,  and  was  delighted  with  them  both;  a  silver 
teaball  quite  enchanted  her. 

"That  was  a  Christmas  present  from  my  sister  Lizzie's 
children,  last  year,"  Ella  said.  And  she  showed  them  a  picture  of 
Lizzie  Stewart's  three  children,  Grace,  Kate,  and  Tom,  wrapped 
and  capped  warmly,  on  a  dim  background  of  snowy  street. 

Immediately  afterward  Vick  and  Fanny  went  off  for  Victoria's 
music-lesson,  and  Ella  and  Lucy  went  into  Ella's  spotless 
kitchen,  where  they  began  preparations  for  a  pot  of  tea,  sliced 
bread  and  butter,  and  currant  jelly,  the  usual  luncheon  for 
ladies  alone  in  those  days.  The  two  had  become  quite  friendly, 
although  Ella  felt  more  at  ease  with  Fanny  still.  But  to-day 
she  wanted  to  speak  to  a  married  woman. 


136    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

So  delicate  were  the  paths  by  which  she  led  to  her  subject 
that  Lucy  found  herself  staring  at  her  keenly  for  some  moments, 
wondering  if  she  could  believe  her  own  inferences.  She  asked 
some  questions,  to  which  Ella  answered  briefly,  and  with  a 
blush.  They  had  been  married  nearly  six  years  and  she  was 
almost  thirty-nine.  Yes.  No.  Yes,  that  was  it.  She  hadn't 
— dear  me,  no! — written  her  sister,  yet,  she  hadn't  even  hinted 
it  to  Rob.  It  seemed  to  frighten  her  even  to  discuss  it  openly, 
having  started  the  subject  she  gave  every  evidence  of  wishing 
immediately  to  change  it.  Lucy,  amazed,  experienced,  ad- 
visory, counted  on  the  lightly  drumming  fingers  of  one  hand 
on  the  table,  and  said  mid-August. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

KITTY  BARBEE  was  twenty  years  old,  bold,  pretty, 
ambitious,  and  quick-tempered.  She  showed  the  quick 
temper  whenever  she  felt  inclined,  and  often  went  into 
long  harangues,  with  tremendous  gusto.  The  Barbees  were 
described  by  all  refined  persons  as  "common,"  but  there 
was  nothing  vicious  about  them.  They  worked  hard,  paid 
their  bills,  went  to  church,  and  were  loyal  to  one  another 
against  the  world.  They  also  fought,  ate,  drank,  and  lived 
hard,  their  voices  were  high,  the  girls  had  rosy  but  coarse  com- 
plexions, the  boys  were  "tough."  There  was  always  a  young 
Barbee  boy  in  the  neighbourhood  gang,  always  a  young  Barbee 
girl  laughing  noisily  at  night  under  the  street  lamp  on  the 
corner  with  a  beau,  and  on  almost  every  summer  Sunday 
there  was  a  rumour  that  one  of  the  Barbee  boys  had  been 
drowned  in  their  crazy  old  boat  on  the  bay. 

Sam  Barbee,  the  father,  was  a  San  Francisco  plumber,  with 
a  small  home  among  the  already  decaying  residences  south  of 
Market  Street,  and  a  large  country  house — really  a  sort  of 
cabin — in  San  Rafael,  for  summer  use.  Here  his  wife,  an 
enormously  fat  woman,  cooked,  scolded,  swore,  perspired,  and 
shouted  all  summer  long,  screaming  almost  as  loudly  with 
felicity  when  an  unexpected  contingent  of  guests  arrived  from 
the  city  as  she  did  with  grief  when  the  dark  rumour  of  her 
son's  drowning  took  form.  She  was  a  woman  to  slap  an  ar- 
riving guest  heartily  between  the  shoulders,  to  cry  with  emotion 
when  the  red  wine  had  gone  round,  to  call  upon  the  Deity  to 
witness  that  she  was  a  good  friend — that  she  never  had  cheated 
■  a  soul  in  her  life — that  she  couldn't  love  this  one  or  that  one 
more  if  he  had  been  her  son! 

Kitty  was  the  only  girl  now  at  home;  Tenny  had  married  a 
young  feller  with  an  elegant  butcher  business  in  Santa  Rosa, 
Joe  Boyle,  to  quote  his  mother-in-law  exactly,  and  Ruby  was 
dead.     Ruby's  mother  never  mentioned  her  without  a  burst 

i37 


i3 8  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

of  tears,  and  a  great  crayon  enlargement  of  a  photograph  of 
Ruby,  with  a  sheaf  of  wheat  from  Ruby's  funeral  floral  piece, 
stood  in  the  city  parlour.  But  Tenny  was  a  great  joy,  enrich- 
ing the  Fourth  of  July  celebration  less  than  a  year  ago  by 
opportunely  giving  birth  to  her  first  child,  in  the  very  centre 
of  a  large  mixed  luncheon  party  in  the  country  house.  What 
with  the  company,  the  heat,  the  laughter,  and  excitement,  the 
young  mother  had  gotten  through  her  ordeal  splendidly, 
and  had  slept  all  through  the  broiling  afternoon  with  her  pretty 
head  only  a  few  actual  feet  away  from  the  revellers,  although 
there  was  a  wall  between.  The  Barbee  house  was  really  only 
a  few  boxes  set  together,  pieced  with  burlap  awnings,  tents, 
and  platforms,  and  set  in  a  waste  of  crushed  dry  grass  and 
odorous  tar-weed.     Most  of  the  living  was  done  in  the  open  air. 

Kitty  was  far  more  socially  ambitious  than  the  satisfactory 
Tenny,  and  when  Kitty  met  the  attractive  Neil  Powers  she 
quite  consciously  set  her  cap  for  him.  She  did  not  invite  him 
to  the  mixed  entertainments  of  her  mother's  home,  but  met 
him  for  strolls,  and  by  appointment  for  the  hour's  trip  to  the 
city.  Neil  was  "in  society"  and  bowed  "to  swells,"  and  that 
was  enough  for  Kitty.  Neil  was  also  handsome  Bertie  Brewer's 
chum,  and  that  was  an  asset.  Sometimes  Kitty  sat  on  the 
boat  between  Neil  and  Bertie,  in  the  delicious  consciousness 
that  also  travelling  on  that  same  boat,  unattended  by  even 
one  squire,  was  one  or  more  of  the  Brewer  girls. 

But  she  was  not  satisfied  with  that;  she  wanted  to  marry 
well;  she  was  astonished  and  delighted  that  she  could  hold  her 
own  with  these  educated  and  travelled  boys,  and  she  had  no 
fears  for  the  future.  Neil  had  been  her  first  choice,  and  when 
Neil  told  her  that  Bertie  was  in  love  with  his  pretty  cousin, 
Nelly  Crabtree,  Kitty  had  no  thought  of  using  him  other  than 
as  a  satisfactory  supernumerary.  She  questioned  him  about 
his  cousin,  and  Bertie  thought  she  was  in  the  argot  of  the  day, 
a  daisy. 

One  suddenly  warm  March  day  Mrs.  Brewer,  unexpectedly 
returning  home  on  an  early  afternoon  train,  was  surprised  in 
the'  car  to  recognize  the  head  of  her  only  son.  Bertie  was 
several  seats  ahead  of  her,  and  her  first  sensation  was  a  puzzled 
fear  at  seeing  him  free  from  the  toils  of  Crabtree  and  Company 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  But  secondarily  she  noticed, 
and  with  a  pang,  that  the  pretty,  frizzled  head  of  Kitty  Barbee 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    139 

was  beside  his,  and  that  they  were  laughing,  elbowing  each 
other,  pushing  and  talking  in  a  manner  decidedly  rowdyish. 
Evidently  Kitty  had  some  small  object  in  her  hand  that  Bertie 
desired 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  trip  that  this  truly  dreadful 
sight  burst  upon  Mrs.  Brewer's  eyes.  For  a  few  minutes  she 
felt  almost  sick.  No  course  of  action  occurring  to  her,  she  sat 
still,  wondering,  as  good  mothers  have  wondered  since  time  be- 
gan, whether  it  would  be  wiser  to  ignore  this  episode  entirely, 
or  to  say  a  few  words  of  guidance  and  warning  to  Bertie. 

Distracted,  she  mused,  within  hearing  of  the  gay  "Bertie, 
you  behave!"  and  "No,  sir,  you  don't!"  of  the  unconscious  pair; 
and  while  she  mused,  Miss  Barbee,  glancing  from  the  window, 
chanced  to  see  a  tipsy-looking  buckboard,  manned  by  two  of 
her  three  brothers,  awaiting  her  at  a  station  two  miles 
south  of  the  home  station.  With  appreciative  shrieks,  she  and 
Bertie  streamed  out,  and  decent  neighbours  heaved  sighs  of  re- 
lief. May  sat  with  flushed  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes  for  the 
rest  of  the  trip. 

To  her  increasing  uneasiness,  Bertie  did  not  come  home  until 
after  the  regular  dinner-hour;  he  said  that  he  had  had  to  go  to 
Oakland,  after  lunch,  for  Papa.  The  man  was  out,  darn  it, 
further  embroidered  Bertie,  innocently  eating  his  boiled  lamb. 

When  the  table  was  cleared,  and  the  girls  and  Stephen  playing 
cribbage,  May  came  beside  her  son,  who  was  still  sitting  in  his 
place,  finishing  his  tea,  and  laid  a  soft,  fat  hand  upon  his. 

"Bertie  dear,  may  Mama  speak  to  you  honestly?" 

He  looked  uneasy;  she  had  a  way  of  making  him  extremely 
uncomfortable. 

"You  are  my  only  boy,"  May  said  gently,  "and  I  think  you 
never  remember  Mama  as  unkind  or  severe  with  you.  I  am 
not  scolding  you,  dear.  But  I  want  you  to  give  up  your  friend- 
ship with  Kitty  Barbee." 

Bertie  turned  red;  his  blue  eyes  glinted  dangerously. 

"Is  that  too  much  for  Mama  to  ask?"  May  asked,  trem- 
bling. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  Bertie  muttered. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her  ? "  May  began  smoothly.  "  Why, 
the  matter  is  that  she  is  not  a  lady,  dear.  She  doesn't  belong  to 
our  class,  Bertie.  Your  grandfather  is  one  of  the  prominent 
men  of  San  Francisco — Papa's  people  were  prominent  in  the 


i4o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

east.  Kitty  is  very  pretty — but  is  she  the  type  I  want  for  my 
daughter-in-law — the  girls'  sister— the  mother  of  your  chil- 
dren?" 

"She's  just  as  good  as  anybody  else!"  Bertie  persisted  after 
a  pause. 

"No,  dear,  she's  not,"  May  said  firmly,  but  a  little  frightened, 
turning  away.  There  was  a  silence.  She  dared  not  say  more. 
And  as  she  went  toward  the  hall,  and  the  library  where  Stephen 
and  the  girls  were,  she  hoped  that  he  would  call  her  back. 
Bertie  made  no  sound. 

Everything  was  worrisome;  life  was  too  burdensome,  May 
thought.  Bertie  infatuated  with  this  little  commoner;  Ella 
going  to  have  a  baby.  As  if  the  Robert's  hadn't  done  enough  to 
make  themselves  popular  with  Pa,  now  they  were  going  to  have 
a  child — it  would  be  a  son,  of  course.  And  Ella  had  already 
said,  with  her  Bostonian  firmness,  that  Robert  must  name  his 
child  for  his  father,  Reuben  Elliott  Crabtree.  Pa  had  been 
cacklingly  delighted  with  the  mere  prospect!  Of  course  he 
would  leave  Ma's  silver  to  this  namesake,  and  dear  knew  what 
else!     The  audacity  of  Ella! 

And  then  a  clerk  in  the  office,  Linton,  with  whom  Bob  had 
trusted  an  important  bit  of  business,  just  as  Stephen  had  ex- 
pressed himself  of  the  conviction  that  Linton  would  never  be 
seen  again,  had  absconded — had  proved  to  be  extremely  capable 
and  entirely  honourable.  That  was  another  feather  in  Bob's 
cap. 

Stephen's  attitude  to  Bob,  at  first  contemptuous,  then  hostile, 
had  changed.  He  professed  himself  now  as  merely  bored  by 
all  this  talk  of  Robert — Robert — Robert!  All  this  nonsense 
about  phenomenal  changes,  sales,  absconders,  was  profoundly 
dull.  Robert  was  a  good  man,  nothing  sensational — just  a  good 
salary  man. 

"He  hasn't  had  much  experience  in  our  particular  line  of 
business,"  Stephen  would  say,  "but  he  is  interested.  I  don't 
see  him  much — he's  in  Woolcock's  department.  If  any  one  else 
but  your  father  was  at  the  head,  Bob  wouldn't  last  a  week!  And 
if — anything — happens,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  conscientiously 
keep  him.  I  would  discuss  that  with  the  directors.  Your 
father  has  asked  him  to  step  in  to  some  of  the  meetings.  Per- 
sonally, I  think  he  makes  a  mistake.  But  this  can't  last  for- 
ever!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  141 

May  turned  from  these  troublesome  matters,  to  contemplate 
with  satisfaction  the  affair  between  Tina  and  young  Mr.  Yel- 
land.  The  clergyman  was  constantly  at  the  house,  with  his 
pleasant  little  throaty  laugh,  and  his  academic  interest  in  books 
and  theories;  he  played  tennis  and  croquet  with  Tina,  and  dined 
occasionally  with  the  Brewers,  and  had  long  ago  proved  to  them, 
as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "that  some  of  us  preacher  fellows  are 
men  as  well  as  ministers!" 

Tina  was  naturally  very  happy;  she  fluttered  through  her  days 
in  a  pleasant  glow  of  laughter  and  planning  and  being  teased 
and  considered.  She  had  taken  a  stern  position  in  the  affair  of 
Vicky's  ridiculous  lover,  the  calf-like  nephew  of  the  Senoritas 
Tasheira — Ruy  da  Sa.  As  a  clergyman's  bride — or  almost  that — 
Tina  could  countenance  no  such  prospect  of  an  unworthy  al- 
liance. 

The  clumsy,  half-civilized  nephew  of  the  Senoritas  Tasheira 
had  paid  assiduous  court  to  Victoria,  after  his  own  fashion,  all 
through  the  winter.  Victoria,  outwardly  amused  and  annoyed 
with  the  rest  of  the  family,  secretly  found  something  almost 
touching  in  his  awkward  attentions.  He  did  not  call,  he  was 
far  too  shy;  but  he  hung  about  the  Brewer  homestead  frequently, 
at  night,  and  he  was  to  be  seen,  in  the  late  afternoons,  walking 
briskly  by  the  gate.  He  had  bought  himself  two  new  suits, 
one  a  brilliant  blue,  the  other  a  check  in  bright  yellow  and 
brown,  both  cut,  Bertie  Brewer  suggested,  by  a  butcher.  Of- 
ferings of  eggs,  calla  lilies,  cream,  and  ducks  appeared  regularly, 
once  a  brace  of  stiff  and  dirty  rabbits  was  left  at  the  door,  once 
a  humming-bird's  beautiful  nest,  and  once  a  rough  purse  made 
from  the  fitted  skins  of  twro  chipmunks. 

Victoria  laughed  at  him,  but  she  really  did  not  like  to  have 
other  persons  find  him  only  funny.  She  experienced  an  odd 
thrill,  half  shame,  half  pride,  wholly  reluctant,  when  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  red,  grinning  face  and  the  shambling  figure. 
From  October  to  April  they  exchanged  only  an  occasional  self- 
conscious  bow,  but  one  heavenly  April  Sunday,  the  Brewers, 
who  were  walking  with  Davy  and  Nelly,  encountered  him,  in  a 
little  sheltered  bit  of  wood,  handling  a  lamb  that  had  been 
prematurely  born.  Victoria,  confused,  bent  over  the  limp  body 
with  him,  manipulated  the  blind,  meek  little  head.  Ruy,  with 
a  great  calf  laugh,  asked  her  if  she  had  had  the  bird's  nest,  and 
if  she  didn't  think  "those  leetl'  bird  was  miracle!"  and  presently, 


i42    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

followed  by  the  anxious  ewe,  went  striding,  in  his  odorous 
muddy  boots  and  with  many  a  backward,  sheepish  grin  of  his 
own,  across  the  hill. 

The  things  he  had  said  about  the  lamb,  and  about  every- 
thing, afforded  the  young  people  exquisite  mirth  as  they  walked 
on.  But  Victoria,  who  was  tramping  beside  her  father  to-day, 
scarcely  heard  them.  She  was  thinking  of  the  lamb,  and  of  how 
interesting  it  would  be  to  establish  the  little  weakling  in  the  old 
adobe  casa.  And  from  this  dream  she  went  on  to  another, 
in  which  she  married  Ruy — who  was  magically  refined  into 
Victoria's  favourite  sort  of  harsh  and  manly  yet  utterly  gener- 
ous and  lovable  hero — and  in  which  she  was  the  darling  of  the 
Senoritas  and  of  the  whole  ranch,  and  went  about,  young, 
adored,  busy,  and  beautiful 

"That  boy,"  her  father  said  presently,  of  Ruy,  "has  had  an 
odd  history.  His  mother  was  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  Tas- 
heiras — and  she  ran  away  with  the  head  sheepman  they  had, 
who  was  an  Indian,  or  half  an  Indian — I  forget.  Now,  whether 
— look  where  you're  stepping,  Vicky! — whether  she  killed  him, 
and  then  herself,  or  he  killed  her,  and  then  himself,  I  can't 
remember.  No,  no,  of  course  not!  He  killed  himself,  and  she 
tried  to  kill  herself — that  was  it.     But  she  lingered  a  few  weeks." 

"But  why  should  she  kill  herself?" 

"Well,  it  was  some  religious  question.  Da  Sa  who  was  half 
Portuguese,  I  believe,  never  had  been  baptized,  and  Senorita 
Ana  couldn't  be  married  in  church  to  him  for  that  reason.  They 
were  married  by  a  sea-captain,  on  the  way  to  Honolulu,  a  sailing 
vessel,  of  course.  There  was  a  wreck,  and  they  say  that  Da  Sa, 
who  was  a  giant,  swam  a  mile  with  his  wife  in  his  arms.  Any- 
way, a  year  later  she  told  him  she  would  have  to  leave  him — she 
didn't  want  to  continue  living  with  a  man  to  whom,  in  the  eyes 
of  God,  she  wasn't  married,  and — that  was  it! — he  killed  himself, 
and  she  slashed  her  own  throat.  Much  later,  two  or  three  years 
later,  her  servant  turned  up  here  with  this  boy,  asserting  that  it 
was  the  Senora's.  I  don't  believe  the  old  aunts  know  quite  how 
to  regard  him.  For  awhile  he  lived  with  the  servants  entirely; 
now  I  understand  that  he's  called  nephew  and  calls  them  aunt, 
and  is  destined  to  marry  that  pretty  little  Argentinian  cousin 
you  girls  met." 

"Really,  Papa!"  Victoria  said,  feeling  suddenly  rather  flat. 
"I  don't — I  don't — believe  he  loves  her!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  143 

"Why  not  ? "  her  father  said  sharply.  "  He'd  better,"  he  added 
indifferently.  "I  understand  that  her  uncle  is  one  of  the  richest 
cattlemen  in  the  Argentine.  I  don't  know  that  anything's 
settled; — I  believe  the  family  wishes  it." 

Victoria  walked  on,  over  the  fresh  deep  grass,  under  a  mottled 
sky  of  dazzling  white  on  dazzling  blue.  It  was  full  springtime 
now,  and  the  air  was  honey-sweet  between  the  rains.  The  girl 
noted  that  the  days  were  getting  longer,  her  shadow  lay  ahead 
of  her  across  the  field. 

"Well,  he's  always  leaving  flowers  and  things  for  me!"  her 
hurt  pride  made  her  say  aloud,  almost  resentfully. 

"Who  is?"  her  father  asked  quickly. 

"Well,  Ruy  is — at  least,  we  suppose  he  is!" 

"You  suppose  a  great  deal  of  nonsense,  Vicky!"  her  father 
said,  good-naturedly.  He  gave  the  matter  no  further  thought, 
but  Victoria  remembered  the  conversation  later,  and  felt  a  cer- 
tain resentment  that  this  shadowy  lover  should  be  calmly 
snatched  from  her  by  the  youthful  Argentinian,  still  in  her  con- 
vent. 

The  next  time  she  saw  Ruy  lingering  about  near  the  house, 
she  managed  to  speak  to  him,  and  although  they  both  were  em- 
barrassed and  awkward  for  a  few  minutes,  Victoria  brought  the 
conversation  about  to  his  horse,  and  horses  in  general,  and  so 
put  him  at  his  ease.  She  did  not  for  one  second  lose  sight  of  the 
loutish  manner,  the  red  face,  the  checked  suit,  while  she  was 
with  him.  But  afterward  she  remembered  with  a  sense  of 
triumph  that  he  was  certainly  desperately  in  love. 

One  July  night,  when  she  was  staying  in  the  city  with  Nelly, 
she  told  Nelly  all  about  it.  Nelly,  in  return,  confided  to  Vic- 
toria that  she  was — well,  in  a  sort  of  way — engaged  to  Davy, 
but  Mummy  disapproved,  and  nobody  else  knew  about  it,  and — 
and — well,  Davy  was  sort  of  funny  about  it,  too 

And  she  began  to  cry.  Victoria  comforted  her  as  best  she 
could,  feeling  herself  akin  to  Nelly  in  that  Ruy,  however  ridicu- 
lous, was  a  genuine  lover. 

"It  makes  me  so  sick!"  said  Nelly,  vigorously  washing  dishes 
with  a  rag  and  eyeing  each  one  keenly  before  she  placed  it  in 
the  heap  that  Victoria  was  drying.  .  "Davy  slaves  and  slaves  at 
that  rotten  old  hardware  story  for  sixty  dollars  a  month — and 
teaching  night-school,  too,  and  taking  care  of  Doctor  Hughes' 
horse — I  don't  know!"  Nelly  said,  in  her  little  angry,  helpless 


i44    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

manner,  "I  don't  know  why  I  have  to  be  the  one  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  man  who  hasn't  a  penny — and  that  horrible  aunt — I 
suppose  it's  a  good  joke  on  me!" 

"Ah,  Nelly — don't!"  Victoria  said,  sympathetically.  The 
two  girls  were  alone  in  the  kitchen;  Alice  and  Georgie  in  San 
Rafael;  Lucy  and  Harry  at  a  church  concert.  The  little  kitchen 
was  hot  and  odorous  on  an  unusually  sultry  July  night,  and  the 
girls  were  lingering  over  the  dishpan  more  to  prolong  the  hour  of 
confidences  than  because  they  were  detained  there,  when  Davy 
came  in  at  eight  o'clock. 

Davy,  announcing  that  it  was  an  exquisite  night,  invited 
them  to  walk  into  Mission  Street  with  him,  and  they  sauntered 
together  through  that  fascinating  thoroughfare.  The  bakery 
was  open,  the  baker's  wife  and  children  perspiring  as  they 
snatched  the  hot  loaves  of  milk-bread  and  the  sheets  of  buns, 
and  snapped  the  pink  string,  and  the  baker  himself  panting, 
coatless,  vestless,  and  in  a  dirty  apron,  at  the  side  door.  The 
grocery  was  open,  too,  and  the  coffee  machine  grinding  in  the 
lamp-light,  groups  of  people  were  sauntering  back  and  forth 
in  the  street.  The  girls  lingered  at  the  windows  of  the  stationer, 
and  at  the  candy  store,  where  little  plaster  pigs  were  scattered 
among  the  filled  boxes  of  "French  candy."  A  great  coil  of  pale 
taffy  with  a  little  hatchet  lying  upon  it  elicited  an  exclamation 
from  Nelly. 

"Urn — m!  doesn't  that  look  good!" 

Victoria  could  not  resist  a  side  glance  at  David.  He  assumed 
an  unbecoming  jocularity. 

"What'll  you  have,  ladies?  Two  bits  a  pound — have  a  cou- 
ple of  tons?" 

Nelly,  who  had  been  looking  at  him  hopefully,  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  a  sudden  expression  of  disappointment  and  hurt. 
David  showed  them  a  few  coins  on  his  big  palm. 

"Laundry  and  carfare!"  he  said  whimsically.  But  the  girls 
were  unappreciative  of  his  humour. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  have  some,  anyway!"  Victoria  said 
decidedly,  and  she  went  in  and  bought  ten  cents  worth,  which 
they  munched  as  they  strolled.  Nelly's  face  was  rosy,  her  voice 
a  little  strained.     David  was  silent. 

But  presently  they  met  Rudy  Sessions,  who  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  do,  and  he  delightfully  suggested  ice-cream.  They 
were  a  balanced  party  now,  always  a  secret  delight  to  Victoria, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    145 

who  hated  a  preponderance  of  girls,  and  she  was  in  wild  spirits 
as  they  gathered  about  a  little  iron  table,  and  ordered  four 
"bisques."  Bisque  meant  nothing  to  any  one  of  them,  but  it 
was  the  new  and  correct  thing  to  order,  and  Postag  made  a 
specialty  of  it. 

Small,  eye-glassed,  pleasantly  self-confident  in  manner,  Rudy 
led  the  conversation.  He  had  a  position  in  the  Mission  now, 
and  unless  he  left  in  a  few  weeks  to  visit  a  farmer  uncle  in  Contra 
Costa  County,  he  would  certainly  look  Miss  Nelly  up,  and  hope 
that  they  would  all  get  together  again  for  lots  of  these  little 
parties.  Victoria  and  Nelly  talked  about  him  half  the  night. 
It  was  almost  two  o'clock  when,  agreeing  that  they  would  not 
marry  him  if  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world,  they  went  to 
sleep. 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  Esme  Brewer  began  to  find 
herself  treated  to  the  consideration  that  is  given  a  girl  who  is 
engaged,  or  almost  engaged.  Afterward  she  used  to  feast  upon 
the  memory  of  Roscoe  Beale's  attentions — such  definite,  such 
unmistakable  attentions! — and  feel  herself  rich  in  just  their 
shadowy  memory. 

Everyone  supposed  the  existence  of  that  satisfactory  condi- 
tion known  as  "an  understanding,"  and  Mrs.  Brewer  may  be 
said  to  have  been  on  tiptoe,  posed  like  a  hair-trigger,  ready  to 
spread  the  tidings  the  instant  there  was  the  first  positive  word 
on  the  subject.  Nobody  knew  much  about  the  Beales,  but  they 
lived  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  which  was  in  itself  a  patent  of  re- 
spectability, and  Roscoe  was  handsome,  outspoken,  young,  and 
doing  well  in  a  broker's  office.  Mrs.  Brewer  was  not  critical 
and  allowed  no  one  else  to  be;  poor  Esme  was  far  from  critical, 
she  merely  wanted  a  husband. 

One  day  later  in  August  Esme  and  her  mother  went  to  the 
city  together,  and  chanced,  in  the  happiest  fashion  imaginable, 
to  meet  Roscoe  at  the  ferry.  He  said  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
and  had  been  planning  a  call  upon  Miss  Brewer  in  San  Rafael; 
Esme  glowed  at  this  statement  with  a  radiance  that  made  her 
rather  lifeless  face  positively  pretty,  and  there  were  a  few  minutes 
of  laughter  and  teasing  before  it  was  decided  that  she  had  better 
not  turn  back  with  him  because  it  was  almost  lunchtime  now7. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish  you'd  do,  Mrs.  Brewer,"  said  Ros- 
coe, "can't  you  and  Miss  Brewer  have  luncheon  with  me  at  the 


146    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Spa,  and  then  we'll  go  round  the  bay  on  the  McDowell — it's  a 
great  trip,  and  I've  never  taken  it." 

"Oh,  you  have  to  have  a  pass  for  that!"  Esme  exclaimed, 
The  little  tug  visited  all  the  government  posts  about  the  bay. 
Alcatraz,  Fort  Baker,  the  quarantine  station,  and  Goat  Island, 
and  the  trip  was  considered  a  delightfully  privileged  one  by  all 
mere  civilians. 

"But  I  have  a  pass!"  smiled  the  resourceful  Roscoe. 

Suddenly  Esme  wanted  to  go  on  the  McDowell  more 
than  she  had  ever  wanted  to  go  anywhere  in  her  life.  She 
almost  danced  up  and  down  childishly  as  she  importuned  her 
mother. 

"Oh,  Mama — couldn't  we?  I've  never  been  on  the  tug! 
Vick  went  once  with  Bertie — but  I  never  have!  Please — 
please " 

Mrs.  Brewer  hesitated.  She  wanted  to  further  Esme's  affair. 
And  the  man's  eager,  smiling  face,  and  his  youthful  masculinity 
quite  thrilled  her.  She  had  planned  to  see  Mrs.  Robert  Crab- 
tree — she  could  have  let  that  go,  to  be  -sure.  Any  other  day 
would  do  as  well.  But  then  she  was  going  to  get  Vicky,  after  her 
music  lesson;  it  was  the  last  lesson,  and  there  was  seventeen 
dollars  to  pay  for  half  a  month.  Mrs.  Brewer  had  asked  her 
husband  for  this  money,  as  was  her  custom  with  all  the  money 
she  handled,  immediately  after  breakfast  this  morning,  but  he 
had  not  had  it  and  had  comfortably  directed  her  to  come  into 
the  office  for  it. 

She  could  not  disappoint  the  old  Signor  and  perhaps  em- 
barrass and  humiliate  Vicky.  May  Brewer  wished,  with  a 
shadow  of  irritation,  that  Stephen  had  given  it  to  his  daughter 
direct;  but  then  he  did  not  like  his  girls  to  handle  money,  and  she 
supposed,  with  a  wifely  sigh,  that  he  was  wise.  So  Esme  must 
make  up  her  mind  to  give  up  the  treat  with  Roscoe.  That  the 
twenty-five-year-old  Esme  might  spend  these  few  hours  un- 
chaperoned  was  not  to  be  considered. 

Tears  came  into  Esme's  eyes — it  was  too  hard.  She  was 
gulping  them  down,  and  trying  to  smile,  when  suddenly  an  em- 
bracing arm  went  about  her  waist,  and  here,  laughing  and 
dimpling  and  quite  distractingly  pretty  in  her  young  wifely 
finery,  was  Lily  Duvalette. 

She  was  instantly  cognizant  of  the  situation  and  instantly 
enlisted  in  Esme's  cause.     She'd  lunch  with  them,  of  course^ 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  147 

and  go  round  the  bay  with  them,  she'd  love  nothing  better, 
and  she  was  an  old  married  woman,  the  best  chaperone  in 
the  world. 

Lily  was  younger  than  Esme  and  looked  about  sixteen,  but 
Esme  was  only  appreciative  of  the  miraculously  saved  day. 
The  three  went  off  together,  Lily  and  Roscoe  discussing  the 
Palace  Hotel,  and  various  friends  there,  Esme  promising  her 
mother  that  she  would  not  miss  the  quarter  past  five  boat.  Mrs. 
Brewer  could  comfortably  beam,  in  her  long  talk  with  her  sister- 
in-law,  that  it  was  all  but  settled  now. 

Robert's  wife  listened  only  anxiously  and  absently.  Her 
ordeal  was  very  near,  and  she  was  nervously  interested  in  the 
question  of  chloroform.  May  laughed  at  her;  she  herself  had 
never  had  even  a  whifF,  with  all  her  babies.  Ella  said  mildly 
that  Rob  laughed  at  her,  too,  and  reminded  her  that  every  baby 
in  the  world  had  been  born — somewhere — of  some  woman.  But 
she  had  been  with  her  sister  Lizzie  when  Grace  was  born — and 
she  didn't  see  why  she  shouldn't  have  chloroform  —of  course  a 
confinement  was  a  perfectly  natural  thing — but  after  all,  she 
was  thirty-nine 

May  was  uninterested,  in  turn.  Her  thoughts  wandered 
with  great  satisfaction  to  Esme. 

".  .  .  but  the  doctor  says  he  never  will  give  it  unless 
the  husband  agrees,"  Ella  was  saying,  painfully,  "and  Bob  says 
that  he  doesn't  want  to  take  the  risk.     I  wish " 

May  presently  had  to  hurry  for  the  boat,  on  which  she  was 
joined  by  Stephen  and  her  older  daughters.  All  four  sat  on 
the  upper  deck,  to  catch  the  breeze,  the  girls  murmuring  to- 
gether. Esme  seemed  disappointingly  quiet  about  her  great 
day;  she  said  that  Roscoe  had  been  "nice,"  and  Lily  "awfully 
nice,"  but  that  the  boat  had  made  her,  Esme,  feel  a  little  sick — 
or  her  head  ached  or  something.  Questioned  archly  by  her 
mother  as  to  when  she  would  see  Roscoe  again  she  responded 
rather  subduedly  and  wearily  that  she  did  not  know. 

Victoria  had  the  true  story  of  the  day,  in  undertones. 

"Of  course  she  was  awfully  nice,  but  she  spoiled  it  all!" 

"Did  Roscoe  hate  her?" 

"Well,  yes,  at  first  he  did.     But  then  afterward " 

They  exchanged  a  sympathetic  glance.     Then  Victoria  said: 

"She  thinks  men  like  that  way  she  talks!" 

"She  just — piled  it  on,"  Esme  said,  very  low.     "How  she  was 


148    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

only  nineteen  when  she  married  Elmer,  and  that  they  had 
horses — and — oh,  I  don't  know,  a  lot  of  stuff!  And  then  when 
I  said  my  head  ached,  she  kept  saying  'But  you're  so  quiet, 
Esme!'  and  the  wind  made  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes — and 
she  was  horrid — well,  I  know  I  never  want  to  see  her  again !  And 
then  I  sort  of  suggested  that  Roscoe  come  over  for  dinner  to- 
night— but  he  said  he  couldn't.  Well,  maybe  he  couldn't — I 
don't  know.  But  what's  the  difference,  anyhow?"  Esme 
finished,  with  desperate  hardihood. 

"Never  mind,  Es',"  Victoria  said,  in  an  undertone  rich  with 
understanding  and  sympathy;  "she's  a  flirt,  Lily — but  she's 
married,  after  all,  and  men  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing,  except 
for  a  few  minutes.  He'll  turn  up  on  Sunday,,  you'll  see.  And 
anyway,  you  did  have  the  lunch  at  the  Spa,  and  the  trip,  you 
know!" 

"Yes,  I  know!"  Esme  was  comforted.  To  have  fresh  ad- 
ventures with  young  men,  to  remember  and  discuss,  was  like 
adding  to  her  bank  account. 

They  fell  to  talking,  in  even  lower  tones,  about  Aunt  Ella's 
expected  baby.  The  boat  careened  gently  in  the  tide  from 
the  Golden  Gate,  the  blue  water  and  the  yellow  hills  tipped  and 
shifted  up  and  down;  Saucelito's  red  roofs,  rising  above  the  curly 
tops  of  oaks  and  peppers,  were  before  them.  Stephen  Brewer 
rose,  and  stuffed  into  his  pockets  the  newspapers  he  and  his  wife 
had  been  reading. 

"Well — finished  your  talk,  girls?"  he  said,  smiling  sleepily. 
The  girls  followed  him  down  the  rubber-covered  stairs,  to  the 
lower  deck.  When  they  were  in  the  train  Esme  said  cautiously, 
to  Victoria. 

"Did  you  see  Bertie?" 

"No.     Was  he  on  the  boat?" 

"With  that  Barbee  girl!" 

It  was  two  nights  later  that  Stephen  Brewer  brought  home 
the  expected  news — and  more  than  the  expected  news.  The 
Robert  Crabtrees  had  a  son — Ella  had  been  very  ill,  but  she 
was  all  right  now.  They  were  going  to  name  him  Reuben,  for 
his  father's  father.  So  much  he  told  May  in  their  bedroom, 
before  dinner,  when  the  girls  were  not  within  hearing. 

"H'm!"  May  said  with  a  pang.  Ella's  infant  seemed 
somehow  to  displace  Bertie.     She  looked  at  her  husband  ex- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  149 

pectantly.  "Don't  you  think  that's  just  a  little  affected, 
Stephen?     She  never  saw  Pa  until  a  year  ago." 

Her  husband  was  silent,  but  May  knew  him  to  be  sympa- 
thetic. 

"Much  good  may  it  do  him — Papa's  name!"  she  said  lightly. 

"It's  done  him  this  much  good,"  Stephen  said,  bitterly, 
"your  father  is  giving  him  this  house!" 

"This "  May's  whole  interior  economy  seemed  to  give 

a  sick  twist  and  plunge;  she  felt  the  shock  in  her  very  vitals. 
"This  house?"  she  faltered. 

"He  said  so.  He  was  laughing  about  it,  with  Bob,  and  he 
said  that  he  wondered  how  his  namesake  would  like  a  country 
place." 

There  was  a  silence.     They  May  said  pleadingly. 

"Stephen  Brewer,  are  you  going  to  sit  by  and  stand  that?39 

"Be  reasonable,  dear,  or  I  shall  think  I  make  a  mistake  in 
confiding  in  you.     I  was  not  consulted,  you  know." 

"No,  I  know,"  May  strangled;  tears  stood  in  her  faded  eyes. 
"Robert  Crabtree  is  nothing  but  a  thief  /"  she  said  passionately. 
"He  was  always  like  that — always  getting  more  than  his  share, 
and  Pa  and  Ma  letting  him  do  it!  Steve,  I  cant  leave  this 
place,"  faltered  May,  "my  home,  my  girls'  home,  for  all  these 
years.  Why,  I  love  every  inch  of  it — every  rose  tree,  my  attic 
— where  the  old  crib  is,  and  the  baby  clothes — the  laundry  tubs 
that  you  put  in,  and  paid  for " 

"Why,  May— May— May!"  Stephen  protested.  "Now, 
now!  He  may  not  do  it,  my  dear.  In  fact,  he  won't.  You 
know  your  father." 

May  gulped,  blew  her  nose,  wiped  her  face  on  a  towel,  and 
spoke  in  a  suddenly  lifeless  and  moderate  tone. 

"No,  of  course  he  won't,"  she  said,  sensibly.  She  combed 
and  brushed  her  thinning  gray  hair,  put  on  her  cashmere  and 
plush  dress,  with  a  careful  arrangement  of  pleats  and  bustle. 
"We  will  simply  tell  the  girls  that  Ella  has  a  little  boy,"  she  said. 
"But  I  do  hope,  Steve,  I  do  hope,"  she  finished,  with  a  long 
breath  of  recovery,  "that  this  time  you  will  take  a  stand  with 
your  father.  I'll  ask  Fanny  if  he  has  said  anything  about  it. 
I'd  much  rather  move  to  the  city,  outright,  than  go  on  paying  a 
gardener  and  taxes  and  goodness  knows  what  here,  if  that's  the 
case!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  taking  a  stand,  May," 


150    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Stephen  said,  a  little  nettled.  "Perhaps  you'd  like  to  come  run 
my  business  for  awhile;  is  that  the  idea?" 

May  closed  the  hall  door  that  she  had  opened  on  her  way 
downstairs.  She  saw  that  she  had  gone  too  far,  and  she  ex- 
perienced a  sensation  of  panic.  She  could  only  listen  silently 
while  he  continued. 

"You  girls — you  and  Fanny — can  talk  easily  enough  about 
my  getting  out  of  the  firm,  and  showing  your  father  this,  and 
scaring  him  into  that!     My  God " 

"Stephen!" 

"Well "  his  tone  softened  somewhat.     "But  what  you 

never  seem  to  realize,  May,"  he  said,  "is  that  I  am  the  firm — 
or  part  of  it.  Your  brother  Robert  is  my  employee.  You  don't 
seem  to  see  that  your  father  could  no  more  pass  over  the  firm 
to  somebody  else,  when  he  died,  than  I  could — if  I  died  to-mor- 
row! No.  About  the  house,  of  course,  it's  different!  Your 
father  said,  when  Tina  was  a  baby,  that  he  wanted  you  and 
your  children  to  have  a  home " 

"I  know!"  May  murmured  submissively. 

"And  I  have  always  felt  that  he  would  have  given  this  place 
to  you  outright,"  Stephen  said,  easily  bringing  in  an  old  griev- 
ance, "if  your  sister  Fanny  hadn't  brought  up  the  question, 
that  Sunday,  of  saving  a  slice  of  it  for  her.  Why  Fanny  thought 
she  wanted — just  at  that  moment — to  specify  that  she  might 
want  to  build  a  country  house  some  day — confusing  and  up- 
setting your  father  and  raising  a  perfectly  new  issue — however, 
that's  over  now!" 

"I  never  shall  forgive  Fanny  that,"  May  interpolated  firmly. 

"As  a  result,  she  has  probably  done  you  both  out  of  the 
house!"  Stephen  concluded  gloomily.  "However,  we  needn't 
go  into  that.  I  can  always  find  a  home  for  my  family,  and  I 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  am  virtually  the  back- 
bone of  the  firm,  whatever  your  father  may  or  may  not  do! 
However,  you  might  see  Fanny  in  a  day  or  two,  May — I  suppose 
you'll  have  to  see  the  baby " 

May  agreed  thoughtfully.  It  was  all  very  perplexing  and 
annoying  to  a  sweet  good  capable  woman,  the  mother  of  four 
lovely  girls,  who  only  asked  to  be  always  in  the  position  of  the 
dispenser,  the  entertainer,  the  adviser,  the  stable  and  serene  ele- 
ment in  a  mutable  world. 

She  went  down  to  the  four  girls,  waiting  for  dinner,  and  se- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    151 

cretly  electrified  by  the  one  sentence  Victoria  had  overheard 
from  her  in  the  upper  hall,  ten  minutes  before,  and  had  lost  no 
time  in  repeating.  They  might  be  going  to  move  into  the  city 
— Mama  just  said  so! 

After  this  thrilling  thought,  the  announcement  of  Ella's  baby's 
arrival  fell  rather  flat.     Lou  was  heard  to  murmur  scornfully. 

"What  did  you  say,  Lou?" 

"Nothing,  Mama." 

"  Don't  say  'nothing'  to  your  mother!"  Stephen  said  sharply. 
"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said — that  we  knew  it  was  coming,  anyway,"  Lou  stam- 
mered, frightened.  Stephen  glanced  with  a  sort  of  triumphant 
accusation  at  his  wife.     The  girls  were  getting  beyond  him. 

"Lou,"  her  mother  said,  trembling,  "I  never  want  to  hear 
you  speak  on  such  a  subject  again;  do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  Mama." 

"And  I  am  surprised  at  your  sisters!"  May  said,  taking  her 
napkin  out  of  the  old  silver  ring  with  the  fat  little  birds  upon 
it.     Dinner  commenced  in  a  stricken  silence. 

Fanny,  who  came  to  San  Rafael  a  day  or  two  later  to  discuss 
!  the  latest  addition  to  the  family,  was  not  reassuring. 

It  was  a  hot  Saturday  morning.  Tina  was  helping  to  decorate 
i  the  church  for  Sunday,  but  the  other  three  girls  were  at  home, 
.  Esme  and  Lou  sweeping  tumbling  masses  of  dried  loose  rose- 
leaves  from  the  porch,  Victoria  soaking  the  window  boxes  with 
a  long  hose.     All  three  welcomed  her  gaily. 

"But  it's  Mama  I  came  to  see!"  Fanny,  panting  with  the 
heat,  and  with  her  bonnet-strings  loosened,  told  them  frankly. 
Esme,  blinking  in  the  dim  hallway,  after  the  streaming  sunshine 
of  the  garden,  piloted  her  indoors.  The  whole  house  smelled 
wholesomely  of  baking  bread.  Mrs.  Brewer  was  in  the  enor- 
mous pantry,  busy  with  glasses  of  currant  jelly,  circles  of  white 
paper,  and  a  saucer  of  alcohol. 

"Run  back  to  your  sweeping,  Esme,"  her  mother  said  pleas- 
antly, after  greeting  the  newcomer.  Esme,  bursting  with 
curiosity,  retired  reluctantly.  The  two  elderly  women  mur- 
mured for  an  hour,  and  were  noncommittal  at  luncheon.  Fanny 
could  only  report  that  Pa  was  foolishly  "tickled"  about  Bob's 
son,  and  had  at  least  threatened  to  leave  the  baby  the  family 
homestead. 


i52    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"After  all,  you've  had  it  rent  free  a  long  time,  May!"  she  said. 
"And  what's  new  with  my  girls?"  she  added  brightly,  as  lunch- 
eon was  announced.  Addie,  who  had  been  helping  with  the 
Saturday  cleaning  and  baking,  looked  as  if  her  face  would  burst 
with  blood,  as  she  moved  about  the  table.  Lottie  was  audibly 
furious,  in  the  kitchen — ^company  and  clean  napkins  for  Satur- 
day lunch!  She  banged  saucepans  about  noisily,  and  Mrs. 
Brewer,  whose  heart  was  heavy,  frowned  faintly  as  she  heard 
them.  Later  when  Fanny  went  into  the  kitchen  with  an  armful 
of  flowers  and  dropped  rose  leaves  and  odd  bits  of  roots  and 
stems  on  the  floor,  and  spattered  the  clean  sink  with  water,  May 
was  quite  definitely  afraid  that  Lottie  would  leave  her  on  the 
spot.  But  if  she  did,  the  harassed  householder  decided  exhaust- 
edly,  she  would  simply  have  to  go.  They  must  get  another  cook 
and  laundress  as  good,  that  was  all,  if  they  had  to  pay  thirty 
dollars  a  month  for  her! 

Fanny  did  not  fail  to  touch  lightly  upon  the  subject  of  Roscoe 
Beale,  with  the  flushed  and  smiling  Esme,  and  to  rally  Tina 
gaily,  when  she  came  in  hot  and  headachy  from  church. 

"Girls — girls — won't  we  have  to  behave  ourselves  beauti- 
fully, with  a  Reverend  keeping  his  eye  upon  us!  I  shan't  know 
how  to  act,  for  one !     Does  one  kiss  the  creature? " 

"Oh,  at  weddings  and  Christmas,"  Vick  said,  and  the  girls 
all  laughed.  Tina  said,  in  great  spirits,  that  she  didn't  propose 
to  have  everyone  kissing  her  husband,  if  she  ever  had  one.  Vic- 
toria, everlastingly  analyzing  and  segregating  facts,  reflected 
that  Esme  and  Tina  were  both  in  a  fair  way  to  be  married,  now, 
Louisianna  only  nineteen,  and  she  herself  had  dim  plans  for 
David,  to  say  nothing  of  the  preposterous  attentions  of  the  calf- 
like Ruy. 

Mrs.  Robert  Crabtree  did  not  recover  from  her  confinement 
as  rapidly  as  had  been  expected,  and  when  her  baby  was  four 
weeks  old,  had  not  yet  left  her  bed.  She  told  Robert,  at  about 
this  time,  that  she  did  not  want  her  sister,  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Boston, 
to  have  the  Copley  and  the  spoons,  those  were  for  the  baby's 
wife,  when  he  had  one.  "He's  the  oldest  grandson  of  the  oldest 
son  in  your  family,  after  all,"  Ella  said  languidly,  her  cool 
hand  in  Rob's  big  warm  one.  "  Don't  let  May  Brewer — promise 
me,  Rob — don't  let  her  get  everything — silver  and  chairs  and 
all  that.     He — he  has  a  right  to  his  share,  Rob.     And  you 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  153 

write  my  sister  and  tell  her  that  I  told  you — my  grandfather's 
cuff-links  were  always  to  be  mine,  and  the  smaller  berry-bowl 
and  the  sugar-shell  spoon.     If  she  knows  that  you  know " 

The  voice  trailed  off  weakly;  she  dozed. 

She  told  Lucy,  when  Lucy  came  to  sit  beside  her,  that  it  had 
all  been  a  good  deal  worse  than  she  had  anticipated,  and  when 
Lucy  wholesomely  assured  her  that  it  always  was,  but  that 
there  was  no  use  in  scaring  people,  and  it  was  over  now,  anyway, 
she  began  weakly  to  cry.  Lucy  had  to  bend  over  to  hear  her 
whisper  that  she  was  afraid  that  there  might  some  day  be  an- 
other baby,  and  she  could  not  stand  it. 

A  few  days  later  she  quietly  died,  seeming  to  care  nothing  for 
Robert's  agitation,  and  very  little  for  the  baby's  predicament. 
Lucy  was  closer  to  her  than  the  other  women,  and  Lucy  boldly 
offered  to  take  care  of  the  tiny  Reuben.  But  her  claim  was 
rapidly  eclipsed  by  that  of  May,  who  suggested  that  the  beauti- 
ful quiet  country  was  the  place  for  the  child.  Fanny,  indifferent 
through  these  preliminaries,  now  stepped  in  and  carried  off  not 
only  the  infant  but  his  father,  to  the  house  in  California  Street, 
thus  scoring  a  great  strategic  advantage.  She  now  had  father 
and  brother  and  nephew,  and  from  this  day  May  was  haunted 
by  a  sickening  vision  of  Robert  gaining  influence  with  Papa  and 
in  the  business,  and  of  Papa  really  fulfilling  his  threat  of  leaving 
the  San  Rafael  home  to  that  ridiculous,  heavy-headed  baby, 
who,  with  Fanny  to  back  him,  would  evict  them  all  from  their 
beloved  establishment  some  day. 


CHAPTER  IX 

VICTORIA!" 
"Yes,  Papa!"  Victoria  holding  floury  hands  free  from 
his  coat,  stepped  to  his  side  and  kissed  him,  as  he  came 
into  the  kitchen.  " This  is  no  place  for  you ! "  she  said,  affection- 
ately. She  and  Tina  were  busy  with  dinner  preparations,  while 
their  mother  was,  as  usual,  in  the  city,  interviewing  a  dozen 
possible  successors  to  Lottie.  Lottie  had  been  recently  most 
impudent  and  ungrateful,  and  had  supplied  them  all  with  tre-  • 
mendous  feeling  of  virtue  and  magnanimity.  As  for  poor 
Addie,  the  Brewer  girls  never  would  forget  the  unmentionable 
horrors  of  the  final  scene  with  Addie,  a  crying,  frightened  Addie, 
with  a  pulpy  red  face,  and  Mama  magnificently  rebuking,  and 
themselves  sent  upstairs  to  talk  about  something  else  while 
Papa  and  Bertie  packed  her  things,  and  harnessed  the  mare,  and 
drove  her  beyond  sight  and  sound  of  respectability  forever. 

Now  for  a  few  exciting  days,  the  five  females  of  the  family 
had  been  scrambling  through  the  housework  somehow,  employ- 
ing makeshifts  of  all  sorts,  and  yet  always  exhausted  and  late 
with  everything.  Butter  went  to  the  table  in  the  round,  two- 
pound  roll,  in  these  days,  and  crumbs  remained  on  the  dining- 
room  floor,  dead  flowers  grew  slimy  in  their  vases,  and  yet  there 
was  never  an  instant  of  idleness.  Their  girls'  hands  were 
scarred  with  soot  and  odorous  of  onions,  their  gowns  were 
streaked  with  grease  and  wood-ashes,  their  feet  ached  and  the 
backs  were  strained,  yet  that  inexorable  round  of  sheets  and 

pails  and  brooms  and  dishes  went  on  and  on  and  on 

"Urn — something  smells  good!"  Stephen  said,  distracted  in 
his  mission.  Tina  offered  him  a  cookie,  from  a  pan  into  which  ! 
underdone  and  overdone  specimens  had  been  segregated,  before 
returning  to  the  sink,  in  which  bowls  and  egg-beaters  and 
the  great  floury  cutting-board  were  indiscriminately  jumbled. 
Outside,  the  lifeless  November  day  was  quiet  and  dull,  but  the 
kitchen  was  hot. 

*54 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  155 

"Your  mother  and  I  want  you,  Vick,"  her  father  said. 

"What  for?"  the  girl  asked  innocently.  But  she  followed 
him  into  the  library,  expecting  no  immediate  answer  to  her 
question. 

Here  was  her  mother,  just  back  from  town,  agitated,  mys- 
terious. The  room  was  shaded,  and  on  the  north  side  of  the 
house,  and  through  the  thick,  dry  honeysuckle  vines  outside  of 
the  window  only  a  cold  dim  light  penetrated.  Damp  leather 
bindings,  and  musty  pages,  and  the  smell  of  unaired  upholstery 
scented  the  air.     Victoria  felt  strangely  uneasy. 

"Vicky,  love,"  her  mother  said,  tremulously.  "Why  have 
you  never  told  Mama  about  encouraging  this  Tasheira  boy?" 

The  solid  ground  failed  beneath  Victoria's  feet,  and  her  mouth 
felt  dry.     She  looked  down,  swallowed  hard,  essayed  a  grin. 

"I  don't  know,  Mama,"  she  said. 

"Then  you  admit  encouraging  him?"  her  father  said  sharply. 

"I — well,  I  have  talked  to  him,"  the  girl  faltered  uncom- 
fortably. 

"You  have  met  him,  you  have  written  him,  and  you  have 
allowed  him  to  get  idiotic  notions  about  you!"  her  father 
summarized  sternly. 

"Well "     Victoria  cleared  her  throat.     "I  do  like  him, 

Papa,"  she  said  bravely. 

Both  parents  eyed  her  aghast.  Her  mother's  look  became 
almost  as  coldly  unsympathetic  as  her  father's  was. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense!"  said  the  latter  harshly.  "You  like 
this  yokel,"  he  said  angrily,  "you  like  this  boor — whose  boots 
smell  of  the  stable — who  can  hardly  read  or  write " 

"Oh,  Papa — he  had  a  grammar  school  education!" 

" — who  hasn't  the  faintest  iota  of  an  idea  of  what  constitutes 
a  gentleman,"  her  father  continued,  "who  very  probably  has 
no  name " 

"Stephen,  be  careful!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  not  having  a  name,"  Vic- 
toria said,  in  surprise;  "his  name  is  da  Sa.  Ruy  Angelo  Antonio 
da  Sa.  He's  been  baptized  and  confirmed — and  as  for  having 
no  name " 

"Never  mind,  dear,  you'll  understand  what  Papa  means 
some  day,"  said  the  mother. 

"And  this  is  the  man  my  daughter  chooses  to  marry!" 
Stephen  groaned. 


156    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"But  I  haven't,  Papa,"  Victoria  cried,  very  much  frightened 
and  near  tears.  "I — I've  just  met  him — places.  And  he 
brought  me  the  lamb — you  and  Mama  knew  that!  And — 
and — I  know  he  likes  me " 

"Listen,  Vicky  love,"  said  her  mother.  "You  trust  Mama 
and  Papa,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  do!"     Victoria  was  crying  now. 

"And  you  know  that  ever  since  you  were  a  little,  wee  baby, 
Mama  and  Papa  have  tried  to  do  everything  to  make  their 
little  girl's  life  bright,  and  to  make  her  a  good  and  useful  and 
lovely  woman,  don't  you?" 

Victoria  sniffed;  even  Stephen  was  moved  and  silent. 

"Now,  dearest,  don't  you  think  you  can  trust  Mama  and 
Papa  now?  Don't  you  think  they  deserve  it,  after  all  their 
planning  and  care?  Of  course  she  does,  Papa!  Now,  Vicky, 
Mama  tells  you,  and  Papa,  who  is  a  good  deal  wiser  and  older 
than  you  are,  Papa  agrees  with  Mama  in  this,  that  in  letting 
yourself  think  of  this  poor  boy — my  gracious!"  May  inter- 
rupted herself  agitatedly,  "I  had  no  idea  of  it! — you  only 
bring  sorrow  to  yourself  and  perhaps  pain  to  him.  He  may 
be  good  enough,  dear,  but  he's  not  a  gentleman,  Vicky.  He 
doesn't  know  anything  about  family,  dear,  manners  and  customs 
that  we  simply  must  have.     You  see  that,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Victoria  gulped,  thoroughly  ashamed  of 
herself  now. 

"Well,  then,  we  simply  want  you  to  go  into  the  parlour  and 
see  him  now,"  May  said,  triumphant  and  persuasive,  "and  tell 
him  very  kindly  and  gently  that  your  father  doesn't  wish " 

"Is  he  here?"  Victoria  said,  in  consternation. 

"Papa  met  him  at  the  gate,  dear,  just  now." 

There  was  a  short  silence.     Victoria  looked  down. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  can't  be  friends  with  him,"  she  muttered 
sulkily. 

"Because  your  father  doesn't  wish  you  to,"  Stephen  said 
promptly  and  finally. 

Victoria  sniffed  and  pouted.  Her  father  seized  the  moment 
for  a  brisk  and  masterly  decision. 

"Come  with  me  now!"  he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

Still  the  girl  hesitated.  But  he  was  her  father,  her  un- 
questioned authority  and  oracle.  May  gave  a  great  sigh  of 
almost  tearful  admiration  and  relief  as  the  two  left  the  room.  i 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  157 

Ruy  was  in  the  parlour.  He  was  still  a  great,  overgrown, 
awkward  boy.  He  was  only  a  year  younger  than  Victoria;  he 
looked  no  more  than  an  enormous  seventeen  or  eighteen.  But 
he  was  changed  from  the  day  of  their  meeting;  he  wore  his 
clothes  more  easily,  his  manner  was  less  gauche,  and  his  black 
hair  was  sleek  above  his  burned,  olive  cheeks.  He  radiated 
utter  rapture  as  the  girl  and  her  father  entered  the  room. 

Stephen  responded  to  his  silly  ecstatic  smile  only  with  a 
brief,  dry  nod. 

"No,  I  think  we  needn't  sit  down,"  Stephen  said.  "There 
seems  to  be  a  misunderstanding  here,  Mr.  da  Sa,  and  I  think, 
for  the  happiness  of  all  parties,  the  sooner  we  clear  it  up  the 
better!  I  understand  from  my  daughter  here,  that  you  have 
been  annoying  her  with  attentions " 

Ruy's  face  changed  expression,  darkened,  lengthened.  Vic- 
toria winced,  and  half- whispered  a  protestant  "Papa!" 

"You  have  been  annoying  my  daughter  with  attentions  that 
can  lead  to  nothing,"  Stephen  pursued  firmly,  "and  I  want 
my  daughter  to  ask  you,  knowing  that  your  feeling  for  her  is 
only  kindly  and — and  generous,  to  discontinue  them." 

There  was  the  silence  of  consternation  in  the  cold,  orderly 
parlour.     Ruy  swallowed  hard,  and  into  his  jocund,  healthy 
brown  face  an  angry  colour  crept. 

"But  Miss — Miss  Brewer  does  not  say  thees,"  he  said 
slowly  and  painfully,  his  eyes  on  her  face. 

"I  think  you  will  find  she  does,  sir!"  Stephen  said,  with 
warmth. 

"What  you  say?"  the  young  man  asked,  turning  to  her. 

In  the  pause  the  nosegay  of  chrysanthemums  and  asters 
which  he  had  been  holding,  slid  to  the  floor.  Victoria  could 
smell  the  cold,  wet,  pungent  chrysanthemums. 

"Of  course — I  say  what  my  father  does,"  she  said,  almost 
in  audibly. 

"She  says  that  as  a  young  lady  with  a  social  position — with 
— with  a  standard  entirely  different  from  yours,"  Stephen 
rounded  it  out,  readily,  "that  attentions  from  you — however 
Well  meant!  however  well  meant! — can  only  cause  her — dis- 
tress— and — and  embarrassment.  She  asks  me  to  ask  you 
not  to  continue  to  annoy  her.     Am  I  not  right,  Vicky?" 

Victoria's  face  was  burning.  She  knew,  if  her  father  did  not, 
that  Ruy  was  remembering  a  score  of  deliberate  acts  on  her 


158  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

part,  meetings,  notes,  messages,  between  herself  and  this — 
she  now  saw — supremely  undesirable  boy. 

"Of  course  you  are,  Papa,"  she  murmured. 

That  was  all.  In  another  moment  Ruy  was  gone,  his  horses' 
galloping  feet  dying  away  into  the  cold,  quiet  winter  day. 
Victoria  could  accept  her  father's  warm  praise,  his  kiss,  her 
mother's  tearful  and  grateful  embrace,  the  flattering  curiosity 
of  her  sisters.  Her  blazing  cheeks  cooled,  her  whirling  thoughts 
quieted.  Papa  had  felt  no  doubt  about  it,  and  a  girl  must 
trust  her  father.  He  had  never  praised  her  .so  much  in  all 
her  life,  and  she  delighted  in  his  approval.  He  said  that  she 
had  acted  like  a  little  lady,  she  had  carried  off  an  extremely 
difficult  situation  well.  A  young  lady  must  expect  these  em- 
barrassing attentions,  but  as  long  as  she  did  nothing  to  en- 
courage them,  she  could  feel  herself  quite  free  to  act  honestly 
and  wisely  when  the  crisis  came. 

All  evening  Victoria  enjoyed  the  subdued  self-satisfaction 
of  the  martyr.  It  had  been  trying,  but  it  had  been  indisputably 
an  adventure.  A  common  girl,  like  Kitty  Barbee,  would  have 
no  such  sense  of  being  protected  and  self-respecting. 

But  the  next  morning  the  reaction  came.  She  remembered 
then  that  Ruy,  with  all  his  defects,  had  been  big,  clean,  strong, 
brimming  with  young  passion.  She  remembered  then  her 
dim  dreams  of  marrying  him,  being  the  idol  of  the  old  Senoritas 
and  the  old  colony  of  their  dependents.  She  remembered  his 
big,  brown,  scarred  hand,  wonderfully  sure  with  a  horse's  limp- 
ing foot,  a  sheep's  tangled  fleeces,  or  a  puppy's  blindness. 
Something  new,  something  for  which  she  had  no  thought,  much 
less  a  name,  awakened  in  her,  and  cried  out  for  that  devotion, 
that  beaming  grin,  and  that  warm  human  nearness.  Her 
heart  rebuked  her  day  and  night — she  had  betrayed  her  friend. 
She  had  let  him  think  she  liked  him,  and  then  played  him 
false. 

A  girl's  father  knew  best — a  girl's  father  knew  best.  But 
what  if  she  had  come  boldly  out,  that  day  in  the  parlour,  with 
a  confession  that  she  had  written  Ruy,  that  she  had  admitted 
to  him,  tacitly  at  least,  that  she  liked  him? 

A  sense  of  having  failed  him,  and  herself,  and  all  that  was 
fine  and  true  in  her,  haunted  her.  If  he  was  not  a  gentleman, 
she  might  have  made  him  one.  If  he  was  not  "in  society,"  it 
would  matter  nothing  to  her. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  i59 

She  deliberately  mentioned  his  name  to  her  mother. 

"Vicky,"  her  mother  responded,  in  an  unexpected  tone,  "I 
was  speaking  to  Papa  about  poor  Ruy  last  night.  Did  you 
ever  understand,  dear,  that  he  is  to  have  the  old  Senoritas* 
ranch  some  day?" 

Victoria  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"I  never  thought  anything  about  it,  Mama!" 

"Well,  I  supposed  that  little  Miss  Espinoza,  that  little 
niece  of  theirs  from  Buenos  Aires,  was  to  inherit  everything," 
Mrs.  Brewer  said.  "But  Bertie  says  her  fortune  comes  from 
an  uncle,  a  brother  of  her  mother.  It  seems  that  the  old 
Senoritas  have  really  adopted  this  boy,  whatever  his  exact 
relationship  is " 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  Victoria  said,  as  her  mother  paused. 

"You  haven't  seen  him  or  written  to  him,  Vicky?" 

"Oh,  no  Mama!     I  promised  you  and  Papa  I  wouldn't." 

"That's  a  good  girl!"  But  Victoria  could  have  sworn  that 
her  mother  was  a  little  disappointed.  "He  surely  admires  my 
little  girl  with  quite  a  Spanish  intensity,"  she  said  urbanely. 

Victoria  was  astounded.  She  pondered  the  matter  for  a 
few  busy,  tiring  days,  and  then  confided  in  Nelly,  who  had  come 
to  San  Rafael  for  the  Saturday  after  Thanksgiving,  and  seemed 
more  intelligently  sympathetic  than  any  of  Victoria's  sisters. 

"Well,  I  think  if  Ruy  is  going  to  have  money,  it  would  really 
make  a  difference  to  Uncle  Steve  and  Aunt  May,"  Nelly  said 
sensibly.  Victoria,  a  hot  clean  tumbler  in  one  hand,  a  dish 
towel  in  the  other,  faced  her  with  reddening  cheeks. 

"If  I  thought  that — "  she  said,  in  a  sick  tone,  "if  I  thought 
that — I'd  write  him  to-night!"  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 
"Papa  would  have  had  no  right  to  make  that  a  reason!"  she 
said,  angrily. 

;'Oh,  I  think  so,  Vick,"  Nelly  said,  pacifically.  "If  he  is 
going  to  have  money,  it  means  that  he  could  take  care  of  you — 
that  he  could  give  you  the  comforts  that  you  have  here,  for 
instance " 

"I  don't  want  comforts!"  Suddenly  Victoria  knew  how 
much  she  liked  her  big  crude  lover,  how  bitterly  she  had  missed 
him.  A  panic  of  remorse  shook  her.  They  were  young,  he 
and  she,  they  had  everything  in  common,  they  loved  the  open, 
the  sunshine,  lambs  and  kittens  and  colts — it  was  not  for 
Papa  and  Mama  to  dictate  their  lives! 


160  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Breathing  hard,  she  went  straight  to  her  father.  He  and 
her  mother  were  in  conference  in  the  dining  room,  and  she 
remembered  later  that  they  looked  at  her  with  some  conster- 
nation as  she  interrupted  them. 

"Papa,  have  you  changed  your  mind  about  Ruy?  Would 
you  mind  if  I — I  would  like  to  see  him,  or  to  write  him?" 

Her  father  and  mother  glanced  at  each  other. 

"I  have  no  objection,  Vicky,"  her  father  said,  mildly. 

The  utter  injustice  of  it  brought  colour  to  her  face. 

"But  you  did,  Papa!" 

"Don't  question  what  Papa  does  or  doesn't  do!"  her  mother 
said  sharply.  "Papa  has  a  great  many  business  worries  that 
you  don't  know  anything  about." 

"If  you  wish  to  write,"  her  father  said,  hesitantly  and  heavily, 
"I  will  see  that  the  letter  is  delivered." 

Victoria  fled,  to  compose,  with  Nelly's  help,  a  dignified, 
yet  unmistakably  encouraging  document.  It  was  nothing  to 
her  that  her  father  would  read  it;  he  and  her  mother  had  read 
every  letter  she  had  ever  written,  and  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  scrawled  lines  from  Ruy,  had  ever  received  in  her  life. 
She  gave  him  the  letter  on  Sunday  morning,  and  sang  over  the 
dishes,  and  thrilled  as  she  swept  the  back  porch,  with  a  rush 
of  high  spirits  that  told  their  own  story.  Later  in  the  same 
Sunday  her  mother  told  her  that  she  had  heard  that  Ruy  was 
ill. 

On  Tuesday  her  father  called  her,  with  a  very  grave  face, 
to  say  that  young  da  Sa  was  dead.  Victoria  turned  ashen 
under  her  healthy  tan.  Dead!  Big,  strong,  brown  Ruy  dead! 
It  made  her  feel  giddy  and  weak  for  a  moment  and  she  was 
glad  to  catch  at  her  father's  hand. 

"But  what  was  it,  Papa?" 

"His  heart  failed,  dear."  Her  father  was  watching  her 
closely.  "Mama  and  I  had  not  felt  particularly  happy  about 
your  attachment  to  him,  Vick,"  he  said  tenderly,  "although  we 
had  softened  toward  him,  as  you  know." 

"Since  you  knew  he  might  have  money!"  something  inside 
the  girl  said  clearly  and  bitterly.     But  she  did  not  speak. 

"We  can  only  hope,  dear,  that  you  will  find  you  did  not  care 
deeply,  and  that  as  the  months  go  by,  and  other  happinesses 
and  pleasures  come  into  your  life,  it  will  be  less  painful  for 
you!"     Stephen  did  not  often  use  this  grave,  considerate  tone 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  161 

with  his  girls,  and  Victoria  was  impressed  by  it.  She  had  had 
a  lover,  and  he  had  died,  and  she  was  not  twenty-four  yet! 
Poor  Ruy!  Poor  little  dream  of  youth  and  love  in  the  setting 
of  the  old  ranch! 

She  went  soberly  back  to  the  making  of  rice-pudding,  the 
egg-spattered  and  grease-stained  pages  of  the  cook-book 
propped  open  against  the  spice-boxes.  Her  sisters  and  Bertie 
were  mysteriously  gentle  with  her;  her  mother  showed  signs  of 
actual  tears.  It  was  sad,  and  dramatic,  and  strangely  gratify- 
ing. 

Suddenly  the  dream  broke  and  she  was  awakened.  An 
undertone  from  Nelly  to  Esme,  a  blundered  question  from 
Bertie,  and  it  was  all  clear.     Ruy  had  killed  himself. 

He  had  brooded,  he  had  been  silent,  he  had  waited — waited 
— waited.  And  on  the  Sunday  of  Thanksgiving  week  he  had 
cut  his  own  throat,  dying  on  Monday,  without  ever  having 
mentioned  her  name. 

Victoria  almost  lost  her  reason,  in  the  first  few  minutes  of 
suffocating  shock.  He  had  waited  to  hear — he  had  waited  for 
just  a  word — and  he  had  never  heard  from  her!     Oh — oh ! 

"Oh,  Nelly — oh,  Mama — Mama!  You  never  told  me — 
you  never  told  me!  Oh,  Mama — he  waited  and  waited  to  hear 
from  me — oh,  and  I  wanted  to  write  him — I  asked  Papa — oh — ! 
you  wouldn't  let  me!  And  he  never  knew — he  never  knew — 
he  lay  there  all  those  days — waiting — I  could  have  gone  to  see 
him — I  would  have  gone — I  would  have  gone!  He  might  at 
least  have  had  that — !  I  could  have  gone  in,  just  for  a  few 
minutes — just  to  say  that  it  was  because  Papa  advised  me — 
Papa  made  me — give  him  up!  Oh,  you  all  didn't  like  him — 
but  I  did!  You  laughed  at  him,  but  I  knew  him  better  than 
you  did — oh,  my  God,  my  God,  my  God!" 

Thus  poor  Victoria,  rushing  from  the  kitchen,  with  several 
members  of  the  distracted  family  rushing  after  her,  sobbing 
and  crying  in  desperate  indifference  to  onlookers,  to  pride,  to 
dignity.  The  girls  were  crying,  and  her  mother,  arms  tight 
about  her,  was  crying,  too. 

"Vicky,  my  lamb — my  darling!  You  mustn't!  Perhaps  it 
was  all  for  the  best,"  sobbed  and  stammered  May,  distractedly. 
"Oh — if  Papa  was  only  home — what  on  earth  shall  we  do? 
Vicky — Vicky  dear " 

Presently  Victoria  was  lying,  silent  and  spent,  on  her  mother's 


1 62    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

bed,  her  eyes  absent,  her  voice  an  indifferent  whisper.  Esme 
and  Nelly,  quiet  and  frightened,  sat  near  her,  eagerly  following 
any  conversational  lead  that  her  infrequent  murmurs  sug- 
gested. 

Of  course  it  wasn't  her  fault — of  course  he  must  have  been 
queer — of  course  these  things  happened,  no  matter  what  any- 
body did  or  didn't  do.  His  mother  had  been  queer,  you  know, 
and  there  had  been  some  mystery  about  his  father,  and  after 
all,  his  feeling  for  Vicky  had  been  perhaps  the  happiest  of  his 
life — darling  old  ducky  Vicky — she  must  drink  her  good  hot 
tea  and  she  would  feel  better 

Vicky  drank  her  tea,  and  cried,  and  lay  silent,  and  cried 
again.  After  supper  she  moved  to  her  own  bed  and  listened 
to  Esme  and  Nelly  and  Tina  when  they  came  to  bed  and  long 
after  the  house  was  all  quiet  she  slept.  But  she  would  not  let 
her  father  touch  the  sore  spot,  even  at  his  most  fatherly  tender-  | 
est,  and  she  rose  up  the  next  day  a  changed  woman.  Some- 
thing was  gone  that  would  never  come  back  to  Victoria  again. 
Papa  and  Mama  had  been  wrong,  although  they  did  not  say  so. 

It  was  not  their  objection  to  Ruy  that  scarred  her  growing 
soul  so  deeply.  No,  parents  had  objected  to  suitors  since  the 
world  began.  It  was  the  fact  that  they  had  made  her  respect 
their  objection,  only  to  waive  it  the  instant  the  suspicion  of 
material  advantage  crept  in. 

Vicky  did  not  go  to  the  funeral;  her  name  had  not  been 
associated  with  the  tragedy,  and  her  mother  begged  her  to  run 
no  risk  of  scandal.  Bertie  went,  and  returned  to  report  the 
Seiioritas  only  apathetically  grieved,  and  that  Lola,  the  little 
imperious  Argentinian,  at  home  from  her  convent  on  a  visit, 
was  a  " daisy."  Ruy  had  vanished  from  the  world  as  if  he 
never  had  entered  it,  and  the  days  began  to  go  dreamily  by 
again. 

Esme's  love  affair  had  dissolved  into  thin  air.  Roscoe 
never  came  to  San  Rafael  now,  and  her  one  or  two  efforts  to 
bring  him  there  were  failures.  Young  Mrs.  Duvalette  was 
getting  up  some  theatricals,  and  Roscoe  was  to  be  prominent 
in  them.  Tina  persevered  with  her  clergyman,  quoting  him, 
serving  him  humbly  in  guild  and  Sunday-school,  dragging 
flowers  and  greens  in  and  out  of  the  little  vestry.  On  Christ- 
mas Eve  he  gave  her  a  gift  copy  of  Mrs.  Browning's  "Geraldine" 
that  had  belonged  to  his  mother,  a  present  that  fluttered  Tina 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  163 

with  greater  happiness  than  if  it  had  been  the  Cullinan  diamond. 
She  showed  her  sisters  the  yellowed  end-paper  on  which  was 
written,  in  flowing  letters,  "Esther  from  Mrs.  Pope,  Feb.  10, 
1881,"  and  commented  a  hundred  times  that  it  had — a  sort  of 
significance,  it  was  a  sweet,  sweet  thing  for  Vernon  to  think  of. 

The  girls  were  looking  at  the  old  book  on  Christmas  Eve, 
when,  at  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Bertie  came  home. 
The  day  had  been  soft  and  bright,  but  long  ago  the  last  sun- 
shine had  gone,  and  the  mountain  chill  had  fallen  upon  the 
bare  garden  and  the  roomy  old  house.  They  were  all  gathered 
about  the  dining-room  coal  fire,  joking,  reading,  wasting  time; 
a  new  "girl,"  named  Mollie,  was  in  the  kitchen  now,  and  Mrs. 
Buckey  had  come  in  to  help  her  over  Christmas  Day,  and  a  de- 
lightful sense  of  leisure  had  fallen  upon  the  family. 

Mollie  came  into  the  room  at  about  the  same  time  Bertie 
did,  to  light  the  gas  with  a  long  narrow  brass  tube  through 
which  a  wax  taper  was  pushed,  and  to  draw  the  shades,  and 
shut  out  the  dimming  yard  with  its  shabby  willows  and  tumbled 
chrysanthemums. 

"Heard  the  news?"  Bertie  said. 
I  His  sisters  showed  a  flattering  excitement. 

"Uncle  Harry  has  lost  his  job,  and  little  George  hurt  his 
foot,"  said  Bertie,  "and  Nelly  went  off  yesterday  and  was 
married  to  Rudy  Sessions,  and  never  told  Aunt  Lucy  until  it 
was  all  over!" 

"Heavens!"  said  Tina,  in  the  stupefied  silence,  "it  seems 
as  if  something  was  happening  every  second!" 

"But  what  will  Aunt  Lucy  do,  Bertie!     Nelly — Nelly " 

Victoria  could  hardly  believe  it.  One  of  themselves  married! 
Actually  a  wife!  With  a  wedding  ring  and  a  new  name — it 
was    incredible.     Married ! 

There  had  been  a  little  unusual  stiffness  in  the  Christmas 
plans.  For  years  the  entire  family  had  gathered  in  the  San 
Rafael  house.  But  Fanny  had  pleaded  for  the  gathering  this 
year,  and  May,  with  bitter  misgivings,  had  been  obliged  to 
see  the  family  hub,  as  it  were,  shifted  to  the  house  in  California 
Street.  Fanny  had  Robert  and  his  baby  there,  Papa  was  aging 
fast,  and  it  was  much  nearer  for  Lucy.  Carra  and  Maggie 
could  manage  perfectly  well,  especially  if  dear  May  would  let 
I  the  girlies  bring  over  the  china  dessert  plates  and  the  other 


1 64  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

dozen  teaspoons,  which  were  Fanny's  anyway,  although  they 
had  long  been  part  of  the  Brewer  equipment.  After  all,  there 
were  only  twelve  of  them  to  gather  about  the  big  table,  for 
Nelly  and  her  new  husband  were  down  in  the  country,  at 
Rudy's  ranch,  and  Harry  stayed  with  George,  who  had  lamed 
himself  while  skating. 

Lucy  was  as  usual  gallant  and  undaunted.  She  wore  a  tight- 
fitting  wine-coloured  velvet  that  had  been  sponged  and  turned 
ever  since  the  Brewer  girls  could  remember  ever  noticing 
clothes  at  all,  she  took  the  centre  of  the  group  with  her  narrative, 
her  pleasure  in  having  news  to  impart  almost  eclipsing  its  un- 
pleasant nature. 

Yes,  Nelly  was  married.  She  and  Rudy  had  walked  in  just 
before  supper  last  night,  as  calm  as  you  please.  "The. chil- 
dren," as  Lucy  now  called  them,  had  decided  it  suddenly,  be- 
cause Rudy  had  "come  into  his  inheritance. "  His  uncle  had 
died  only  two  days  before,  so  it  must  have  been  very  quiet  any- 
way, and  he  had  gotten  the  license  and  carried  Nelly  off  with- 
out any  time  for  delays.  Now  they  had  gone  down  to  the 
ranch,  a  beautiful  place — from  his  description,  anyway — in  the 
Contra  Costa  region,  the  San  Joachim  valley.  Rudy  had  had 
some  nattering  offers  from  various  firms,  but  he  and  Nelly 
were  wild  to  try  fruit  farming;  he  had  been  brought  up  to  that. 

About  her  husband,  Lucy  was  brief,  but  mysterious.  The 
Atlas  people,  through  the  obnoxious  manager,  Barrell,  had 
indeed  notified  Harry,  with  a  substantial  Christmas  gift  in  the 
shape  of  a  twenty-dollar  gold-piece,  that  his  further  services 
would  not  be  needed.  But,  said  Lucy  darkly,  she  was  pretty 
sure  that  wasn't  the  end  of  that.  After  fifteen  years  it  was  a 
pretty  business  if  a  firm  could  do  that! 

"My  dear  Lucy,"  Stephen  said,  almost  horrified  at  the  im- 
plied criticism  of  the  sacred  rights  of  corporations,  "why 
shouldn't  the  firm  dismiss  an  employee,  if  it  wants  to?" 

"Good  gracious,  it's  their  money!"  May  added,  reasonably. 

"Well,"  Lucy  said,  retreating  diplomatically,  "a  good  rest 
won't  hurt  Harry,  that's  what  I  tell  him!" 

"Delightful,  if  he  can  afford  it!"  Fanny  commented. 

"Some  years  since  my  last  vacation!"  Stephen  added  good- 
naturedly. 

"Oh,  you — everyone  knows  what  a  snap  you  have!"  Lucy 
said,  lightly  but  annoyingly. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    165 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  man  who  hasn't  had  a  vacation  for  seven 
years  has  a  great  snap!"  May  responded,  in  the  same  tone,  and 
with  sudden  colour. 

" Dinner  is  served  when  you  are!"  Maggie  announced 
suddenly,  appearing  flushed  and  breathless  in  the  folding  door 
that  shut  off  the  dining  room.  The  girls,  hungry  and  merry, 
streamed  out  beside  their  elders.  The  long  white  tablecloth 
was  set  with  celery  and  glass  dishes  of  scarlet  cranberry  sauce, 
there  was  a  centre  bowl  of  blue  china,  filled  with  variegated 
roses,  and  whenever  conversation  lulled  someone  said  intently: 
"Aren't  those  roses  just  perfectly  exquisite!" 

There  were  oyster  patties,  and  a  new  soup  called  "tomato 
bisque,"  and  then  the  great  turkey,  with  all  the  familiar  acces- 
sories. Fanny  asked  Robert  to  carve,  a  distinct  infringement 
of  Stephen's  rights.  May,  glancing  at  her  husband,  felt  a  rush 
of  passionate  admiration  for  the  mild  good-nature  with  which 
he  bore  this  slight  affront.  The  conversation  was  chiefly  of  the 
food,  with  an  occasional  outbreak  of  surprise  over  Nelly. 

After  the  meal,  the  old  man  was  helped  upstairs  to  bed. 
The  others  sat  about  in  heated  discomfort  for  perhaps  an  hour, 
then  the  departures  began.  All  the  Brewers  left  in  a  body  for 
San  Rafael,  the  girls  talking  together  in  the  fresh,  cool  breezes 
on  the  boat,  their  father  silent,  Bertie  in  low-toned  conversation 
with  his  mother. 

Any  one  of  his  sisters  would  have  preferred  to  absorb  Bertie. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  jealousy  over  him,  and  to  have  Mama 
ignore  them,  and  pay  him  so  much  attention,  was  vaguely  ir- 
ritating. It  became  evident,  as  the  little  San  Rafael  ploughed 
her  slow  way  through  the  cold-looking  tides,  that  Bertie  wanted 
to  do  something  his  mother  found  unpalatable. 

"But  Mama  wants  her  boy  on  Christmas  Day,"  they  heard 
her  murmur;  "she  is  a  bad,  selfish  Mama,  and  she  wants  that 
day  to  be  just  a  home  day!" 

"But  Mama,  they  expect  me "  Bertie  protested. 

"Then  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  people  they  can  be,  dear, 
to  ask  an  only  boy  to  leave  his  family  on  Christmas  Day!" 

"They  knew  I  was  going  to  be  in  the  city,  Mama,  and  they 
thought  if  our  dinner  was  over  at — say,  three,  I  could  come  to 
them  at  four  or  five,  don't  you  see?" 

"Yes,  but,  dearie,  you're  on  the  boat,  now!" 

"But  I  could  turn  'round  at  Saucelito  and  go  back,"  Bertie 


166  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

said  eagerly.  May  seemed  to  feel  that  she  had  lost  a  point,  and 
answered  with  fond  definiteness:  "Oh,  I  think  you  had  better 
stay  with  Papa  and  the  girls,  now,  dear!  I  think  that  would  be 
nicer,  all  'round!" 

"The  Barbees!"  Esme  formed  the  word  merely  with  her 
lips,  and  the  other  girls  nodded.  Bertie  was  darkly  sulky  and 
restless  for  the  rest  of  the  Christmas  afternoon.  Victoria  saw 
that  he  was  watching  the  clock,  morbidly  estimating  just  which 
train  he  was  missing,  just  what  possible  connections  he  might 
have  made. 


CHAPTER  X 

RUDY  SESSIONS  had  timed  his  last  appeal  to  Nelly 
with  an  almost  uncanny  knowledge  of  her  nature  and 
u  her  mood.  She  was  exhausted,  after  the  Christmas 
finale  at  the  kindergarten.  She  was  furious  because  the  credit 
for  the  long  sticky  day  of  tree  and  presents  and  marching  and 
singing  had  been  calmly  appropriated  by  Miss  Caddie,  her 
superior,  and  because  Miss  Caddie  had  told  her  complacently 
that  she,  Laura  Caddie,  had  been  made  superintendent  of  the 
five  kindergartens  in  the  Mission,  and  hinted,  with  that  air  of 
authority  that  sits  so  unbecomingly  upon  certain  women,  that 
Miss  Crabtree  must  please  try  to  come  back,  after  a  good  rest, 
with  a  little  more  real  love  for  the  children,  and  just  a  little 
pleasanter  manner  with  everyone. 

"Come  back  at  New  Year's  ready  to  do  your  best,"  Miss 
Caddie  said,  enjoying  herself;  "make  this  work  your  first  con- 
sideration— that's  the  important  thing.  Not  how  pretty  you 
look,  not  what  young  man  is  waiting  to  walk  home  with  you — 
no,  that  doesn't  matter!  But  whether  you're  giving  satisfac- 
tion here " 

There  was  much  more  in  the  same  strain.  Nelly  had  listened 
rebelliously,  with  murder  in  her  heart.  She  had  walked  home 
brooding  and  despondent  and  tired,  to  find  her  father  there, 
discharged,  utterly  despairing.  Lucy  had  been  brisk  but  bitter, 
Alice  wide-eyed  with  awe.  "But  what  will  we  do,  Mama?" 
Alice  kept  whispering.     "Where  will  we  get  money?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know!"  Lucy  would  answer  irri- 
tably. "Papa  will  get  another  position,  that's  all!"  Later 
she  told  Nelly  that  Davy  Dudley  and  his  dreary  aunt  had  gone 
to  Napa,  Miss  Clay  probably  not  to  return.  "They  say  she 
owes  about  four  hundred  dollars,"  said  Lucy;  "that  poor  boy's 
work  is  cut  out  for  him!" 

"He   doesn't   owe   it!"   Nelly   said,   contrarily.     Christmas 

167 


168  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

would  be  in  three  days  now;  she  told  herself,  with  angry  tears, 
that  this  was  a  nice  Christmas  prospect! 

Then  Rudy  chanced  to  come  in.  His  uncle  was  dead,  and  he 
told  Lucy  with  becoming  gravity  of  the  lovely  ranch  where  he 
had  spent  his  boyhood,  and  of  the  crops  and  the  team  and  the 
spring.  It  was  all  his,  now.  He  had  to  go  down  to  the  funeral 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  he  might  stay  there  some  time. 
There  was  a  man  on  the  place,  Pete,  and  Rudy  said  he  thought 
his  own  mother  was  there,  although  when  she  last  wrote  she 
was  with  his  married  sister  in  Portland. 

"There'll  be  the  deuce  of  a  lot  to  settle,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
only  working  on  commission  where  I  am." 

He  and  Nelly  washed  the  supper  dishes,  and  Rudy  was 
helpful  with  suggestions  to  Harry;  there  were  any  amount  of 
openings  everywhere,  according  to  him.  In  the  evening  he 
and  Nelly  sat  before  the  little  wood  blaze  in  the  dining  room, 
and  conferred  in  low  tones.  It  was  all  arranged  then.  They 
would  be  married  the  next  day. 

"Everyone  in  the  country  knew  Uncle  Rip.  Nelly,  do  you 
suppose — at  the  funeral,  you  know — that  you  have  anything 
black  to  wear?" 

Nelly  thrilled.  This  was  assuming  a  wifely  position  with 
satisfactory  completeness.  She  would  appear  beside  her  hus- 
band, in  proper  mourning. 

"My  suit's  black,"  she  murmured,  "and  I'll  get  gloves  and 
a  veil  and  take  the  rose  off"  my  hat." 

Somehow  to  figure  in  the  public  eye  as  Rudy  Sessions'  young 
wife,  beside  him  at  the  grave,  returning  with  him  to  the  family 
farmhouse,  was  infinitely  satisfying  and  exciting  to  Nelly. 
She  and  Rudy  had  been  sweethearts  for  some  time;  he  had 
kissed  her  more  than  once.  Suddenly  she  knew  that  for 
better  or  worse  this  eye-glassed,  quick-spoken  young  man  was 
her  fate,  and  she  sighed. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  was  bitterly  cold;  Rudy  and  Nelly 
reached  Canfield  too  late  to  go  up  to  the  farmhouse,  but  met 
the  cortege  at  the  church,  and  went  at  once  to  the  front  pew. 
Here  a  muffled  form  was  whisperingly  introduced  to  Nelly  as 
"Ma,"  and  her  lisle  glove  met  a  bony  hand  in  a  big  cotton  glove. 
Neighbours  were  creaking  and  whispering  all  about,  and  a  wheezy 
organ  was  sending  broken  notes  into  the  chill  heavy  air. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  169 

The  graveyard  was  fortunately  not  far,  the  obsequies  brief 
and  cold.  Nelly  saw  Rudy's  own  name  upon  the  neighbouring 
stone,  and  presently  his  mother  put  back  her  stiff  new 
veil,  revealing  a  lined,  hard,  honest  face,  and  knelt  by  this 
grave,  tossing  away  the  withered  brown  flowers  that  still 
hung  in  a  round  tin  vase,  and  pulling  at  an  obstinate  weed  or 
two. 

It  was  all  over.  The  raw  dirt  was  heaped.  It  shone  damply 
where  it  was  slapped  with  spades.  The  steaming  horses  turned, 
Nelly  and  her  mother-in-law  climbed  into  the  closed  carriage, 
which  smelt  of  wet  leather  and  mouldy  hay,  the  one  other  car- 
riage and  the  half-dozen  of  surreys  and  phaetons  rattled  briskly 
down  the  hill  after  them. 

"They  say  a  funeral  always  brings  a  wedding,"  said  the 
elder  Mrs.  Sessions  with  a  sort  of  awkward  and  angular  friend- 
liness. Nelly,  exquisitely  pretty  in  her  black,  was  deliberately 
essaying  the  conquest  of  this  lanky,  silent,  alert  woman.  "I 
got  home  Thursday,"  continued  Rudy's  mother,  "and  lucky 
thing,  too,  because  Pete  couldn't  do  much  for  Uncle.  He 
passed  away  Saturday  afternoon,  poor  feller.  Well,  if  there's 
a  heaven,  he's  there — as  Ida  said.  You  don't  know  Ida 
Burns — she's  Ida  Larabee  now,"  she  said  kindly  to  Nelly; 
"she  was  Rudy's  baby  sweetheart,  years  ago!  She  was  up  to 
the  place  this  morning,  Rudy,  but  I  guess  Joe  come  for  her. 
Quite  a  few  of  the  folks  come  up,  but  there's  nobody  there  now. 
I  didn't  know  as  you'd  get  here,  and  I  was  going  to  stay  with 
Mis'  Pease  if  you  didn't." 

The  road  wound  up  and  up,  past  vineyards,  orchards,  mead- 
ows, and  belts  of  forest.     They  turned  in  at  an  open  gate,  rattled  . 
across  a  bridge,  stopped  under  two  fine  oaks.     Nelly,  cramped 
and  cold,  stepped  down. 

The  house  was  somehow  oddly  disappointing.  It  was  a 
four-roomed  white  cottage,  with  a  small  front  porch  and  an 
ornamental  railing.  It  had  a  bay-window,  showing  draped 
lace  curtains,  and  a  glimpse  of  a  pink  china  lamp.  There  were 
fruit  trees  in  the  yard,  but  only  starved  and  straggling  flowers, 
nasturtiums  dying  on  yellowed  stalks,  marguerites  overgrown 
with  brown  shrivelled  blossoms.  About  the  place  the  lines  of 
orchard  spread  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel. 

They  went  about  to  the  back,  and  Mrs.  Sessions  took  a  key 
from  under  an  empty  milk-can,  and  unlocked  the  kitchen  door. 


170    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Somehow  the  back  of  the  place  looked  more  inviting  than  the 
front,  to  Nelly.  There  was  a  porch,  picking  hens,  a  barrel  of 
potatoes,  a  wood-pile.  There  was  a  summer  kitchen  built  on, 
with  a  stove  funnel  wavering  above  it.  There  was  a  blinking 
mother  cat  with  kittens. 

In  the  cold,  blank  kitchen  Mrs.  Sessions  briskly  began  dinner 
preparations.  She  told  Rudy  to  take  his  wife  into  her  room, 
remarking  that  she  would  take  Uncle's  room.  Nelly  found  a 
lumpy  double  bed  in  one  of  the  two  bedrooms,  a  walnut  bureau 
and  a  washstand  with  a  damp,  red-lined  towel  drying  over  a 
pitcher  and  basin.  In  the  parlour  was  a  patent  rocker  with  a 
rep  fringe,  a  centre-table,  a  large  crayon  portrait  of  Rudy's 
father,  and  a  horse-hair  sofa.  The  pink  lamp  stood  on  a  cross- 
stitch  mat  with  ball  fringe;  there  was  a  rug  with  a  Newfound- 
land dog  design. 

The  house  was  bitterly  cold  and  odorous.  Nelly  was  glad 
to  return  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  wood-fire  was  snapping  and 
smelling  pleasantly.  Her  mother-in-law  was  skimming  milk 
with  a  bony,  firm  hand.  She  skimmed  it  by  loosening  the 
cream  about  the  edges,  and  pushing  it  gently  off  in  a  great 
leathery  fold  with  a  stick.     The  kettle  was  already  singing. 

"I've  got  to  make  biscuit,  there  isn't  any  bread,"  said  Mrs. 
Sessions,  "look  in  that  starch  box,  Nelly,  and  see  if  there's 
an  egg  there!" 

Nelly  stepped  into  the  pantry,  which  released  cold  odours  of 
food,  old  wood,  and  mice.     She  returned  with  a  solemn  look. 

"Not  one!  But  there's  a  pumpkin  pie,  and  a  bowl  of  some- 
thing  "  _ 

"Yes,  Milly  Hicks  brought  me  that  pie,"  Mrs.  Sessions 
said,  "and  that  other  stuff's  tapioca — I  sort  of  got  hankering 
for  it.  Nelly,  you  yell  to  Rudy,  and  tell  him  to  get  me  some 
eggs!" 

Nelly  looked  blank.  The  village  was  five  miles  away.  But 
presently  she  ran  up  to  find  Rudy  at  the  barn,  in  a  muddle  of 
fences  and  gates  and  milking-sheds,  great  dim  heights  filled 
with  hay,  stalls  showing  the  nervous  hindquarters  of  horses, 
cobwebby  tangles  of  feed-bins  and  meal  sacks  and  paint  cans, 
rough  gates  and  doors  and  openings  in  every  direction.  The 
open  spaces  were  cluttered  with  rusty  and  muddy  machinery, 
chains  and  straps,  tools  and  barrels  and  boxes. 

Rudy  was  talking  to  Pete,  whose  dark  forehead  was  pressed 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  171 

against  the  flank  of  a  red  cow.  Milk  was  hissing  gently  into 
the  dirty  foam  in  the  pail,  the  cow  turned  her  head,  and  eyed 
Nelly  uneasily. 

"Rudy — you've  unharnessed?  But  your  mother  wants  you 
to  go  for  eggs!" 

Rudy  joined  her  with  an  ecstatic  look;  she  was  indeed  ex- 
quisite in  her  black,  with  fire-flushed  cheeks  and  rumpled 
pale-gold  hair. 

"And  what  does  my  wife  want?"  he  murmured,  an  arm  about 
her.     The  blue  eyes  flashed  up  at  him  happily,  trustingly. 

"Oh,  you  scare  me  to  death  when  you  call  me  that!"  she 
whispered,  dimpling. 

"Nelly,"  Rudy  whispered,  "you're  the  most  beautiful  little 
thing  God  ever  made — no,  he  can't  hear  anything  but  the 
milk!"  he  reassured  her,  of  Pete.  "Tell  me,  darling,  do  you 
like  it — the  farm?" 

"Rudy,  it's  like  a  dream!" 

"But  you  love  me?" 

She  looked  down,  raised  mischievous  eyes. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"But  I  want  to  hear  you  say  it!" 

His  arm  was  close  about  her;  the  smell  of  his  skin,  the  near- 
ness and  smoothness  and  warmth  of  his  face,  the  heart  beating 
against  her  tight-held  breast,  were  confusing  her  senses  again. 

"Rudy — I  came  here  on  an  errand!"  she  protested,  prettily 
important. 

He  released  her,  laughing,  her  soft  mouth  burned  and  sting- 
ing from  his  kiss. 

"Oh,  is  that  so,  Mrs.  Sessions?     Well,  what  is  it?" 

They  had  drawn  somewhat  away  from  the  empty  stall  in 
which  Pete  was  milking;  now  they  went  back.  Rudy  leisurely 
snapped  shut  the  clasp-knife  he  was  caressing,  leisurely  rested 
his  foot  upon  an  upturned  tub  and  smiled  expectantly  at  his 
wife.  His  whole  manner  had  subtly  changed  even  since 
yesterday;  he  was  a  farmer  now. 

"Eggs.     Your  mother  wants  eggs,"  Nelly  said. 

"And  where  do  you  think  we  get  eggs?"  he  demanded,  laugh- 
ing. 

From  the  hens,  of  course!  Nelly  laughed  out  merrily.  She 
could  help  him  hunt,  in  the  cold  ins  and  outs  of  the  draughty 
space.     Presently  he  whispered  to  her  to  say  something  de- 


i72    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

cent  to  Pete,  and  Nelly  obediently  turned  her  pretty  appeal- 
ing eyes  upon  the  swarthy  Portuguese.  She  would  have  quite 
as  gladly  smiled  at  the  pig,  and  much  more  readily  at  the  cow, 
but  Rudy  had  asked  her,  and  that  was  enough. 

There  were  other  cows,  horses,  a  hundred  chickens  of  all 
types,  wild  barn  cats  who  lived  upon  live  meat,  and,  truly 
enough,  pigs — giving  off  a  quite  hideous  strong  odour  even  upon 
this  airless  winter  day. 

The  supper  was  good,  with  an  abundance  of  eggs,  cream,  milk 
and  sweet  butter  that  Nelly  found  astonishing.  The  cream  was 
almost  too  heavy,  dropping  in  thick  clots  from  the  pitcher. 
They  ate  at  the  kitchen  table,  which  was  covered  with  dark  red 
oilcloth.  Afterwards  she  found  herself  stiff  and  weary  as  she 
and  Mrs.  Sessions  busied  themselves  with  the  dark  old  tin  pans 
and  the  black  old  pots  and  the  thick  china. 

Night  shut  down  chill  and  early,  kerosene  lamps  were  lighted. 
Rudy  was  delayed  at  the  barns.  Nelly  felt  weary  and  dirty; 
she  did  not  know  how  to  get  clean;  her  trunk  would  not  arrive 
for  a  day  or  two,  but  after  that  gay  and  confident  little  wedding 
she  had  put  a  few  necessities  into  Rudy's  leather  satchel.  She 
had  not  the  energy  to  carry  the  lamp  into  their  bedroom,  to 
make  trips  for  hot  water,  to  undress  far  enough,  in  this  biting 
cold,  to  take  a  sponge  bath.  She  felt  lost  and  forlorn,  toiling 
about  this  strange  kitchen  in  her  best  dress. 

The  days  went  by,  but  youth  and  love  and  laughter  were 
ready  for  them  all.  Heavy  rains  fell,  splashing  and  dripping 
under  the  bare  orchard  boughs.  The  chickens'  three-pointed 
footprints  marked  the  porch;  Rudy  brought  in  great  clods  of 
mud  with  the  milk.  Nelly  huddled  close  to  the  kitchen  fire; 
she  was  always  cold;  she  laughed  at  herself,  but  she  was  cold, 
none  the  less. 

Her  thoughts  were  all  of  warmth.  She  thought  of  herself 
loitering  home  through  the  sunny  Mission,  on  a  September  af- 
ternoon, between  picket  fences  packed  with  marigolds  and  roses. 
She  thought  of  burning  Sundays  in  San  Rafael,  of  herself  and  the 
Brewer  girls  all  in  white,  and  the  banksia  roses  bursting  with 
bloom.  She  remembered  sleepy  spring  afternoons  when  she 
and  Alice  had  helped  their  mother  with  the  side  garden. 

The  rain  fell — fell.  Mrs.  Sessions  cooked  and  washed  dishes, 
her  gaunt  hands  always  marked  with  soot  and  grease.  She 
was  a  silent,  resigned  sort  of  woman,  beaten  fiat  by  life.     But 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  173 

she  liked  Nelly,  and  Rudy  did  his  best  to  amuse  his  wife.  He 
never  rattled  down  the  hill  in  the  old  surrey  without  taking  her 
along;  they  would  buy  gum-drops  and  oranges  at  the  village 
store,  and  perhaps  plan,  as  they  splashed  and  struggled  up  the 
long  grade,  for  future  expeditions  that  would  reach  the  city, 
and  include  books  and  new  curtains  and  shoes.  His  own  days 
were  pleasantly  filled  with  farm  matters,  questions  of  stock  and 
implements;  he  was  always  warm,  busy,  interested.  Nelly 
envied  him. 

Spring  came  early.  By  February  the  ranch  was  a  paradise. 
Nelly  could  ramble  forth  in  the  heartening  sunshine,  gathering 
trillium  and  lilac  in  the  woods,  coming  back  to  the  house  flushed 
and  rosy  and  dishevelled.  She  kept  flowers  in  the  rooms;  she 
would  find  herself  out  under  a  blossoming  plum  tree,  almost 
dizzy  with  the  beauty  and  brightness  about  her.  When  the 
cherries  bloomed,  bees  gathered  so  thick  about  them  that  the 
breeze  brought  the  zum-zumming  to  the  ears  of  the  two 
women,  as  they  laughed  over  yellow  chicks  in  the  deep  grass. 
There  were  buttercups,  blue  onion-flower,  daisies,  and  clover 
waving  in  fragrant  acres  and  acres,  and  silvery  oats  blew  like  the 
surface  of  a  lake  when  the  low  winds  touched  them. 

Nelly  would  lean  her  broom  against  an  oak,  run  to  the  barn 
and  waste  blissful  minutes  over  the  calves,  run  to  the  spring, 
run  up  to  the  farrowing  sheds  to  see  the  squirming  baby  pigs. 
She  was  always  singing  and  always  happy  now,  and  Rudy  was 
more  madly  in  love  with  her  than  ever.  She  told  him  that  as 
soon  as  his  mother  left,  things  were  going  to  be  very  different. 
They  would  use  the  sacred  parlour  for  a  dining  room  then,  and 
some  day  build  a  big  sitting  room  right  across  the  front  of  the 
house. 

If  they  sold  the  fruit,  Rudy  told  her,  they  would  begin  to 
build  this  summer,  and  this  prospect  so  elated  Nelly  that  she 
wrote  her  mother  the  first  happy  confidential  letter  of  her  mar- 
ried life.  They  were  regular  farmers  now,  wrote  Nelly,  and  she 
was  living  on  such  cream  and  eggs  as  city  people  never  saw.  The 
place  was  small,  but  she  and  Rudy  were  going  to  build.  She  was 
writing  out  under  the  honeysuckle  vine,  and  the  valley,  lying 
below  her,  was  one  stretch  of  pink  apple-blossoms.  She  wanted 
Georgie  and  Alice  to  come  up  for  vacation. 

When  the  calves  were  sold,  she  knew  Rudy  got  about  a  hun- 
dred dollars.     But  it  had  to  go  for  seed,  he  said;  seed,  lime, 


174  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

cement,  and  the  services  of  a  neighbouring  farmer  for  three  days 
cultivating  in  the  orchard.  Also  the  bridge  had  to  be  repaired 
and  the  well  cleaned;  "the  old  man  let  the  place  run  down," 
Rudy  explained. 

His  mother  left  them  in  Match,  dispassionately  warning 
Nelly  "not  to  make  work  for  herself,"  as  she  left.  Nelly 
laughed  buoyantly,  and  returned  to  the  farmhouse  brimming 
with  planned  changes.  For  several  weeks  she  persevered  with 
the  pretty  details  of  a  big  white  spread  on  her  bed,  meals  in  the 
front  room,  flowers  everywhere,  and  a  little  freshening  of  her 
own  costume  before  she  sat  down  at  the  table.  But  as  the 
hot  spring  weather  deepened  and  sweetened  over  the  valley, 
Nelly  gradually  came  to  feel  these  touches  unnecessary,  and 
then  impossible.  Nobody  saw  them,  anyway,  she  argued  in 
secret  disappointment.  There  were  few  callers  at  the  ranch, 
and  these  few  were  country-women  much  better  versed  in  house- 
keeping than  she  was.  The  youngest  of  them  could  tell  her 
more  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  hard  water  and  soft  soap, 
pig  feed  and  chicken  feed,  starching  and  baking.  She  must 
make  her  pie  shells  by  the  dozen,  soon,  she  was  warned,  and  she 
must  by  no  means  accustom  the  hands  to  more  than  meat, 
potatoes,  dessert,  and  coffee  for  their  meals. 

"Once  begin  'em  with  asparagus  and  puddings,  and  they'll 
begin  to  complain  the  first  time  your  oven  goes  back  on  you," 
said  Pansy  Billers,  an  overblown  young  matron,  firmly.  "Now 
and  then  a  cherry  or  peach  shortcake  ain't  so  much  fuss — but 
keep  'em  down!" 

Nelly  told  this  to  Rudy,  with  laughter,  a  few  nights  later. 
They  had  followed  a  favourite  custom  of  theirs,  and  driven 
several  miles  to  a  mountain  hotel,  "French  Eddy's,"  for  the 
dinner  of  fried  chicken  and  salad,  French  bread  hot  from  the 
oven,  and  red  wine. 

These  occasions  were  always  happy  ones.  They  followed 
delightfully  upon  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  and  after  the 
drive  Nelly  always  had  colour  and  appetite.  The  delicious  hot 
food  rested  and  refreshed  them  both,  and  the  wine  made  Rudy 
tenderly  sentimental,  and  Nelly  contentedly  acquiescent.  They 
would  sit  long  at  the  little  garden  table,  looking  down  across  the 
stretches  of  prosperous  farming  country,  emptying  their  glasses, 
and  crunching  the  brittle  crust  and  the  webby  pulp  of  the  famous 
bread.     Eddy  himself  would  come  forth  to  talk  to  them,  an 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    175 

immense  old  Frenchman,  with  a  mud-coloured  shirt  soaked  in 
perspiration,  open  at  his  dark  throat. 

"We  won't  have  but  about  four  or  five  men  in  fruit  time," 
Rudy  assured  his  wife.  "And  half  of  'em  will  go  down  to  Can- 
field  every  night  for  supper  at  home,  anyway.  If  you  leave 
plenty  of  bread  in  the  box  at  night,  and  the  coffee  mixed,  I'll  see 
to  the  breakfast,  and  all  you'll  have  is  the  washing  up,  and  then 
of  course  dinner." 

"I've  got  it  all  planned,  Rudy.  I'm  going  to  do  lots  of  cook- 
ing every  morning,  and  have  just  piles  of  corn  and  tomatoes 
and  peas.  We'll  start  off  always  with  a  salad,  then  some  good 
meat  with  at  least  three  vegetables,  and  then  some  real  summer 
dessert,  gelatine  or  fruit  custard,  with  cake.  You  may  have  to 
eat  what's  left  for  supper,  you  poor  thing " 

"Oh,  Lord,  give  me  any  old  thing  for  supper!  Say,  Nelly, 
if  you  do  that,"  Rudy  said  eagerly,  "you'll  have  this  whole 
valley  talking  about  the  board  up  at  Sessions'!" 

"Then  when  it's  all  cleaned  up,  at  about  three,"  Nelly  pur- 
sued, "I'll  take  a  good  wash,  and — will  we  have  the  saddle 
horse  then?" 

"Well,  sure,  if  Pete  finds  one!" 

"Well,  then  I'll  go  for  a  gallop,  or  if  Alice  is  here,  for  a  drive, 
and  then  back  for  a  cool  little  supper,  just  ourselves,  out  under 
the  grapevine." 

They  clasped  hands  and  sat  silent,  in  utter  felicity. 

Naturally  their  marriage  had  not  reached  its  fifth  month 
without  an  occasional  squall.  Nelly  was  sweet-tempered,  and 
her  husband  idolized  her,  but  their  life  was  hard  and  lonely,  and 
they  were  both  young.  It  had  been  a  real  blow  to  Rudy  to  dis- 
cover that  his  wife  was  not  in  truth  a  natural  heir  of  old  Reuben 
Crabtree.  The  fact  had  been  elicited  at  an  unfortunate  moment, 
too,  for  it  was  when  Nelly  was  aghast  to  learn,  for  the  first  time, 
that  the  ranch  was  held  by  them  upon  an  extremely  uncertain 
basis.  Rudy's  uncle  had  bought  it  in  good  faith,  some  twelve 
years  ago,  making  a  payment  of  twenty  per  cent,  of  the  purchase 
price  upon  taking  possession.  Immediately  afterward  a  defect 
in  title  had  been  discovered,  and  the  bank,  holding  a  heavy 
mortgage  upon  the  farm,  had  stopped  the  sale  where  it  stood. 
The  original  owner,  dying  at  this  inopportune  moment,  had 
complicated  matters  by  leaving  only  two  little  girls,  in  a  convent 


176  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

school  in  San  Jose,  whose  interest  in  the  farm  had  been  but 
languidly  and  indifferently  represented  by  first  this  relative  and 
then  that.  The  discovery  of  a  splendid  water-right  upon  the 
western  boundary,  and  instant  proceedings  by  the  neighbour 
on  that  side  to  claim  the  entire  spring,  was  one  of  the  complica- 
ting details  that  the  years  had  developed.  Pending  a  decision 
the  Sessions  had  lived  along  comfortably  upon  the  place,  faced, 
in  some  dim  future,  by  the  necessity  of  paying  the  balance  of 
the  price,  amounting  to  several  thousand  dollars,  or  of  allowing 
the  bank  to  take  over  the  property  as  it  stood. 

Nelly,  to  whom  the  word  "mortgage"  was  fraught  with 
everything  terrible,  had  stammered  out  something  of  her  utter 
consternation  at  this  state  of  affairs. 

"But,  Rudy,  what  would  we  do?     Just — lose  it?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  could  always  get  a  city  job!" 

"Yes,  I  know !     But  there's  so  much  money  in  it,  Rudy. 

All  our  pigs — you  said  you'd  clear  seven  hundred  dollars  on 
pigs  alone.  And  the  prunes,  and  the  bungalow  we  were  going 
to  build!" 

"Well,"  Rudy  had  then  said  easily,  "if  your  old  grandfather 
dies,  I  suppose  you'll  come  in  for  something,  a  few  thousands 
anyway!" 

"My  grandfather?  Oh,  you  mean  Grandpa  Crabtree?  Well, 
he  might,  I  suppose.  But  he'll  probably  leave  it — you  see,  it 
isn't  as  if  I  was  really  his  grandchild." 

"How  d'you  mean  really  his  grandchild?" 

"Why,  my  father  was  Mama's  first  husband,  Rudy,  I  told  you 
that!" 

Rudy  looked  astounded. 

"Yes,  you  did— not!" 

"I  did,  too!  I  told  you  the  day — almost  the  first  day  we  met. 
I  said  that — I'll  tell  you  when  it  was!  You  and  Papa  and 
Georgie  and  I  went  to  Oakland  one  Sunday  just  for  the  trip, 
don't  you  remember?  And  I  showed  you  Carter's  bakery,  at 
Fourteenth  Street,  and  said  that  that  was  my  uncle." 

Rudy  had  scowled. 

"It  said  Ellen  Crabtree  on  your  marriage  license,"  he  said 
sourly.  He  hoped  to  scare  her,  but  she  was  only  anxiously 
placating. 

"Well,  I  think  Mama  had  my  name  changed — I  know  she 
did — before  we  went  to  England!     But  never  mind,  dear,"  said 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  177 

Nelly  courageously.  "We'll  save,  and  we'll  raise  pigs,  and  we'll 
pay  it  off  ourselves,  if  the  time  comes!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  could  have  saved  every  penny  that 
came  in,  or  almost  every  penny.  Except  for  coffee  and  sugar 
and  flour  they  bought  almost  nothing  for  the  kitchen,  and  Nelly 
could  often  get  these  in  exchange  at  the  village  store  for  fresh 
eggs,  baskets  of  new  potatoes  or  greenings,  or  chickens  she  killed 
and  plucked  herself. 

It  fretted  her  to  have  Rudy  spend  money,  spend  big  sums  for 
machinery,  for  a  new  sulphur  house,  and  for  wire  fences.  She 
was  accustomed  by  this  time  to  all  sorts  of  petty  discomforts  in 
the  kitchen,  saucepans  mended  with  wisps  of  cloth,  weary  trips 
to  the  well  for  water,  and  the  broken  grate  in  the  wood  stove  that 
would  occasionally  precipitate  her  good  fire  suddenly  into  the 
ash  box.  It  was  exasperating  to  see  that  Rudy  could  so  in- 
stantly replace  any  bit  of  farm-gear  that  was  worn  or  broken, 
while  she  struggled  with  a  hundred  ugly  economies  indoors. 

She  had  been  married  six  months,  and  hot  June  was  upon 
them,  when  she  first  felt  an  impulse  of  something  like  hatred  for 
Rudy.  She  had  asked  him  and  asked  him,  she  told  herself  pas- 
sionately, to  get  her  a  new  soup  kettle.  To-day,  with  two 
strange  men  for  lunch,  and  her  head  aching,  and  the  possible 
sale  of  the  peaches  impending,  the  handle  of  the  old  pot,  full  of 
rich  bean  soup,  broke  between  the  stove  and  the  sink,  deluging 
Nelly,  the  floor,  and  the  stove  itself,  with  the  cold  pasty  liquid. 

She  could  get  no  heat  into  her  oven  to-day,  the  wind  was 
wrong.  She  did  not  know  whether  the  apple  pie  and  the  lamb 
would  ever  be  done.  The  soup,  and  the  new  gingham  dress  it 
had  ruined,  had  been  her  pieces  de  resistance.  Nelly  did  not 
know  it,  but  the  hour  was  a  milestone  in  her  life. 

Alice  did  not  go  up  to  the  ranch  that  summer,  and  Georgie 
cried  himself  to  sleep  a  dozen  times  because  Nelly  was  where 
there  were  cows  and  chickens  and  a  red  bull,  and  had  not  even 
once  written  Mama  to  ask  him  to  visit  her.  It  was  a  hard 
summer  in  all  their  lives. 

Nelly  came  down  to  visit  her  mother  the  very  day  after  the 
fruk-pickers  and  harvesters  left.  She  was  very  pale,  as  she 
left  the  Mission  Street  car,  and  walked  slowly  to  the  cottage, 
and  on  her  somewhat  drawn  and  colourless  little  face  the  big 
country  freckles  stood  out  plainly.     Lucy  meeting  her  at  the 


1 78  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

gate,  among  dry  geraniums  and  marigolds,  saw  that  her  wedding 
hat  was  carelessly  placed  upon  her  plainly  brushed  hair,  and  her 
wedding  suit  spotted  and  shapeless  upon  the  distorted  figure. 

More  grave  than  the  physical  changes  was  the  mental  attitude 
she  presently  discovered  in  her  daughter,  as  they  talked  and 
talked  and  talked  during  that  first  day  and  evening.  Nelly  was 
curiously  hardened  and  coarsened  now,  in  ways  that  only  a 
mother,  and  a  clever  mother,  could  see;  even  Lucy  could  not 
analyze  them.  The  young  wife  displayed  a  certain  stoic  dis- 
illusionment; husbands  were  creatures  to  be  discounted  and 
endured,  life  was  a  drag,  and  Nelly  commented  upon  her  fast- 
approaching  motherhood  only  with  a  philosophical  "just  my 
luck!" 

By  the  time  Alice  came  in,  a  quieter  and  shabbier  Alice,  the 
older  sister  had  taken  off  her  hat,  brushed  her  hair,  and  had  a 
drink  of  cold  water,  and  she  looked  calmer.  Alice  was  nearly 
eighteen  now,  and  although  her  mother  had  never  mentioned 
Nelly's  condition,  she  had  guessed  it,  and  she  recognized  it  at 
once,  with  a  deep  flush. 

"And  how's  Papa?" 

"Just  the  same." 

"Is  he — is  he  in  anything  now,  Mama?" 

Lucy  lifted  a  stove  lid,  looked  in,  replaced  it. 

"No,"  she  said  briefly  and  quietly. 

"He  was  working  last  week,"  Alice  said  timidly.  "He  was 
in  a  patent  filter  place,  on  Market  Street,  to  show  you  the  bugs, 
in  water!     But  they  closed  on  Saturday  night." 

"But,  Mama,"  Nelly  said  in  a  worried  undertone,  "how  do 
you  get  along?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  we  do!"  Lucy  said  brightly  and  cheerfully. 
She  stepped  to  the  pantry,  brought  out  a  bowl  of  flour,  and  be- 
gan to  make  biscuit.  "They  want  this  house,  December  first," 
she  said,  "they're  going  to  put  a  store  here." 

"But,  Mama,  where  will  you  go?" 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  go  somewhere!"  said  Lucy,  courageously. 
"I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  taken  that  San  Rafael  house  and 
rented  rooms!"  she  added  mildly. 

"But,  Mama,  aren't  you  worried?" 

"No,"  Lucy  said,  with  a  logical  air,  "I'm  not.  I  shall  get  a 
position  at  once — I've  decided  on  that.  I  may  go  in  with 
Miss  Donovan — millinery.     She  spoke  to  me  about  it  some  time 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  179 

ago.  I  am  really  considering  it,  although  it  sounds  crazy!  But 
you  know  me,  I  reach  a  point  when  I  have  to  act — and  I  act" 

Alice  and  Nelly  were  comforted,  as  they  had  always  been, 
by  her  optimism. 

"Seventy  dollars  in  one  month,  that's  what  Mrs.  Cullen  made, 
selling  'Footsteps  of  Believers  in  the  Holy  Land/"  Lucy  stated 
triumphantly. 

"But,  Mama — you  couldn't  peddle  books!" 

"I  couldn't  peddle  books,  no.  But  if  I  did,"  said  Lucy,  "I 
certainly  could  earn  more  than  Ida  Cullen!" 

"Don't  put  your  milk  in  before  your  shortening,  Mama!" 

"Here!"  Lucy  looked  down  suddenly  at  her  hands.  "What 
am  I  doing?"  she  said. 

Everything  in  the  little  kitchen  looked  pinched  and  shabby, 
to  Nelly's  eyes.  The  battered  dark  tins,  the  almost  empty 
jars  and  boxes,  the  thin  slices  of  stale  bread  and  the  spoonful  of 
apple  sauce,  carefully  hoarded.  The  table  was  chipped  and  dis- 
coloured, and  Lucy's  worn  purse,  lying  on  the  sink,  looked  so 
shabby  and  flat.  Nelly  knew  just  the  pink  milk-ticket  and  the 
dull  half-dollar,  and  the  coarse  handkerchief  that  were  inside. 
Poor  Mama,  who  had  to  pay  for  every  egg  and  every  pint  of 
milk! 

They  began  to  talk.  Nelly  confessed  that  she  had  tried  to  do 
too  much,  all  summer;  she  had  cooked  and  washed  dishes  and 
skimmed  milk  and  fed  chickens  all  alone. 

"Rudy  wanted  to  get  me  a  girl,  but  it's  awfully  hard,  in 
summer,  unless  you  want  to  pay  twenty  or  thirty  dollars — and 
of  course  that's  ridiculous!  And  when  the  hogs  got  sick,  I  was 
glad  we  hadn't  wasted  any  money.  Every  hog  in  the  valley  got 
summer  cholera,  so  it  was  nothing  we  did — but  of  course  it  was 
discouraging!  And  then  Jummy  and  the  gopher  hole — the  best 
horse  we  had!  However,  Rudy  knows  the  first  trace  of  cholera 
now,  and  he  can  watch  for  it,  and  of  course  the  other  was  just  a 
pure  accident!" 

When  Georgie  came  in,  his  sister  was  so  much  her  old  self 
that  she  could  sit  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  put  her  arms 
about  him,  and  explain  to  him  all  about  the  past  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  the  worst  sister  that  ever  was,  darling? 
But  I  was  so  terribly  busy,  dear,  and  it  was  so  hot!  And  I  was 
just  flying — so  much  milk,  you  know,  and  I  would  have  to 


i8o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

rush  out  for  eggs,  and  to  the  spring  house,  and  for  fire  wood,  and 
even  dig  a  few  potatoes " 

"But  I  could  have  done  all  that  for  you,  Nelly,"  Georgie 
said. 

"But  I  wouldn't  want  you  just  to  work,  Baby!" 

"Yes,  but  Nelly,  there' d  have  been  such  fun,  in  between  times, 
and  fruit — apricots  and  peaches,  oo-oo,  Fd  love  it!"  the  boy 
said  eagerly. 

"Yes,  I  used  to  feel  that  way  about  farms,"  Nelly  said, 
thoughtfully,  "and  I  kept  saying  to  Rudy,  'Could  you  meet 
Georgie  next  week?'  but  you  see,  he  couldn't  spare  the  horses. 
And  then  he  was  so  tired,  and  I  was  so  tired — of  course,  I  was 
sick " 

"What  was  the  matter,  Nelly?"  Georgie  was  rubbing  his 
head  against  her. 

"Oh "    She  glanced  at  her  mother.    "Headache,  darling, 

and  backache.  And  I  got  so  thin — I  couldn't  eat  anything,  and 
the  smell  of  the  milk  used  to  make  me  so  ill!  And  then  we  had 
to  save  the  currants — I  didn't  pick  'em,  but  I  cooked  them, 
and  all  the  berries,  and  the  clingstone  peaches,  three  trees  of  'em. 
I  put  up  two  hundred  and  eighty-seven  glasses,  Mama.  I 
brought  you  down  as  many  as  I  could.  Ida  Larabee  always  puts 
up  eight  hundred!" 

"And  what  did  you  feed  the  men,  Nelly,  and  how  many  were 
there?" 

"Oh,  pork — pork — pork!  That's  all  they  want.  Pork, 
and  pies,  and  cheese,  and  coffee.  Sometimes  I  made  cake,  and 
once  Rudy  got  a  wonderful  salmon,  over  at  Martinez.  There 
were  four  for  awhile,  and  then  seven.  But  all  I  ate  was  toast 
and  cream." 

"Imagine  having  all  the  eggs  and  cream  you  wanted!" 

"Oh,  and  fruit,  and  chickens,  too,  only  the  smell  of  cleaning 
chickens  made  me  faint,  one  day.  But  then  I  was  sick;  I  tell 
Rudy  it'll  be  very  different  next  summer!" 

"Nelly,"  said  Alice,  following  some  train  of  thought  perhaps 
suggested  by  the  allusion  to  illness,  "I  am  going  to  be  a  trained 
nurse!" 

"Oh,  you  aren't!" 

"Yes,  I  am.  You  know  Victoria  wanted  to  be,  but  Aunt 
May  wouldn't  let  her.  But  Mama  says  she'll  let  me,  didn't  you 
Mama?" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  181 

"But  Mama,  she'll  be  married  in  a  year  or  two!" 

"Well,  I  hope  she  will,  and  of  course  she  knows  that  taking  the 
training  for  a  nurse  will  make  men  apt  to  think  she's  strong- 
minded,"  Lucy  said,  thoughtfully.     "But  it  gives  her  a  home, 
and  eight  dollars  a  month,  and  really — really,  Nelly — Papa  is 
so  worried " 

"Ah,"  Nelly  said,  fondly  kissing  her  sister,  "I  want  her 
to  have  dances  and  pretty  gowns,  and  then  marry  somebody! 
Don't  let  her  go  off  and  be  a  professional  nurse,  always  having 
to  work  so  hard,  and  half  kill  herself!  It's  only  a  few  years, 
and  then  the  right  man  will  come  along !" 

"I  know,"  Lucy  said,  more  than  half  convinced,  "I  feel  that, 
too!" 

"Maybe  I'll  marry  the  doctor!"  Alice  said,  demurely. 

"Yes,  that's  what  they  all  say!"  Lucy  said.     "But  I  notice 
the  doctors  want  pretty,  refined  young  ladies,  when  it  comes 
!  to  marrying!" 

The  subject  was  interrupted  by  Harry,  who  came  quietly  and 
wearily  in  at  this  moment.  Nelly's  heart  stood  still  when  she 
saw  how  worn  and  threadbare  the  smiling,  tired  little  man  looked. 

"Well,  Nell ?"  he  said,  in  the  doorway.     Nelly  sprang  to 

meet  him. 

"Papa — you  darling  you!" 

"Well "     Harry  said,  with  watering  eyes,    holding  her 

tight.     "Little  Nelly  back — eh?     Seems  pretty  good,  don't  it, 
1  Mama?     Well,  Nelly— Nelly— Nelly!"  he  added  tenderly,  as 
the  girl  clung  to  him,  ashamed  of  her  own  sudden  tears.     "Glad 
I  to  see  me,  are  you?" 

Nelly  laughed,  and  sniffled,  and  laughed  again,  gulping  down 
the  rest  of  her  tears. 

"I  don't  believe  I  knew  how  crazy  I  am  about  you  all!"  she 
said,  " I  can  begin  to  realize  now  just  how  much  you  did  for  me!" 

Harry's  face  was  radiant.  Whatever  cares  had  dogged  his 
homecoming  feet  were  forgotten  now.  As  they  gathered  about 
the  meagre  meal  they  gave  Nelly  all  the  news. 

Rob's  poor  little  baby  was  delicate,  had  convulsions  and 
spasms  and  at  least  a  suspicion  of  hip-disease.  Fanny  had  had  a 
hard  time  with  him,  and  now  he  was  in  San  Rafael,  with  the 
Brewers.  Grandpa  was  failing  fast,  rarely  left  the  house  now. 
One  of  the  Senoritas  Tasheira  had  gotten  smallpox,  then  almost 
an  epidemic  in  San  Francisco,  and  Aunt  May  had  invited  little 


1 82    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Miss  Espinosa,  their  heiress  niece  from  the  Argentine,  to  come  to 
them  for  the  Thanksgiving  holidays. 

"So  that  Bertie'll  fall  in  love  with  her  and  land  that  million 
dollars!"  Alice  said  innocently,  and  they  all  laughed. 

"Well,  we're  all  well,  and  together  again,  and  that's  better 
than  twenty  million  dollars,"  Harry  said,  contentedly.  Nelly 
could  respond  honestly  that  in  all  her  life  she  had  never  seen 
Georgie  looking  so  well;  the  delicate  blonde  little  brother  was 
transformed,  at  fourteen,  into  a  sturdy  handsome  brown  boy. 
Her  praise  of  him  gave  his  father  infinite  satisfaction. 

She  stayed  with  her  mother  for  ten  days,  happy  days  despite 
the  overhanging  worry  at  Lucy's  house,  and  days  that  did  Nelly 
much  good.  One  day  she  and  her  mother  left  Alice  in  charge  of 
the  house,  and  went  across  the  bay  to  see  the  Brewer  family  in 
San  Rafael. 

It  was  early  October,  a  soft  hazy  day  of  yellowing  woods, 
languid  gardens,  and  sunshine  veiled  through  brush  fires. 
Leaves  rustled  under  their  feet  as  they  walked  from  the  train  to 
the  Brewer  house,  and  Nelly  felt  breathless  almost  to  pain  as 
she  sank  into  a  chair  on  the  porch.  The  little  motherless  Reu- 
ben, who  was  called  Bobo,was  asleep  in  Louisianna's  old  wicker 
baby-carriage,  at  the  side  of  the  house,  under  a  mosquito  net. 

The  girls  gathered  interestedly  to  meet  their  old  companion, 
now  so  oddly  altered  in  appearance  and  manner.  Lou  had  , 
washed  her  hair,  and  had  been  drying  it  on  the  tennis  court, 
where  Esme  and  Tina  had  been  idly  tossing  balls  back  and  forth. 
They  said  eagerly  that  Nelly  had  not  interrupted  their  game — 
they  were  just  killing  time.  Victoria  came  out  blinking,  with 
tumbled  hair  and  warm  cheeks;  she  was  keeping  a  theatre  book, 
she  said,  with  programmes  and  advertisements  and  pictures  of  the 
actors  and  actresses  she  had  seen,  and  she  had  almost  gone  to 
sleep  over  her  lettering  and  pasting.  Nelly  took  the  floor  with 
a  buoyant  account  of  affairs  at  the  ranch. 

Presently  May  came  out,  somewhat  fluttered  by  the  unex- 
pected voices  in  their  quiet  garden,  and  delighted  to  talk.  She 
had  a  new  doctor  for  the  baby,  it  appeared,  a  doctor  who  held 
the  somewhat  absurd  theory  that  what  the  child  ate  affected 
its  health. 

"Steve  and  I  had  a  good  laugh  at  him,"  May  said,  "when  he 
said  he  thought  poor  little  Bobo  had  had  too  much  mush! 
Mush !     The  one  thing  in  the  world  for  a  bafcy.     He  wants 


:: 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  183 

him  fed  at  regular  times,  but  I  told  him  that  he  couldn't  tell  a 
mother  anything  about  that.  I  always  fed  my  babies  when  they 
cried,  and  look  at  them — the  dearest  children  a  mother  ever 
had !  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  without  them — what  I  will 
do  when  they  all  follow  Nelly's  example!"  she  finished,  with  a 
little  archness. 

"Don't  worry — the  Brewer  old  maids  are  one  of  the  sights  of 
San  Rafael!"  Lou  said,  with  a  sort  of  laughing  bitterness.  Her 
approaching  twentieth  birthday  was  making  her  feel  anxious  and 
old.     Esme  laughed,  too. 

"You  can't  manage  to  get  a  husband  for  one  of  us,  Mama, 
much  less  the  four!"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  fond  irritation. 

"I  don't  want  to!"  their  mother  said,  stoutly.  "I  want  my 
girls  to  take  their  time,  and  be  sure  of  themselves  before  they 
make  any  change!" 

"One  of  us  will  begin  it,  and  the  rest  will  go  off  like  hot  cakes," 
Victoria  said,  burying  her  head  on  her  knees  with  a  great  yawn, 
as  she  sat  on  the  top  steps. 

"You  wish  it!"  Louisianna  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Don't  be  so  disagreeable!"  Victoria  said  quickly.  Their 
mother  chose  to  take  no  notice  of  this  little  passage,  but  ques- 
tioned Lucy  about  her  affairs.  They  all  sat  on  idly  content  in 
the  sweet,  lengthening  shadows  of  the  autumn  afternoon,  while 
the  air  cooled,  and  in  the  long  shafts  of  reddening  sunlight, 
through  oaks  and  eucalyptus,  bees  shot  to  and  fro,  and  little 
clouds  of  black  flies  wove  and  circled.  The  odours  of  tarweed, 
of  grapes,  of  the  gnarled,  small  dusty  apples,  came  pleasantly 
across  the  dilapidated  old  garden. 

"I  ought  to  be  watering!"  Victoria  said,  and  wrapped  her 
head  in  her  arms  again,  and  yawned.  They  all  yawned,  laughed, 
confessed  to  being  mysteriously  sleepy. 

How  was  Bertie?     Oh,  fine !     Did  he  ever  see  the  Barbee 

girl  now?  Well,  sometimes,  but  Mama  was  pretty  sure  that  it 
was  all  over,  in  that  direction.  How  was  Mr.  Yelland?  There 
was  hesitation;  it  was  left  to  Tina  to  answer  that  he  was  fine, 
everything  just  the  same.     And  Uncle  Rob? 

May's  face  clouded. 

"Stephen  never  says  much,"  she  said,  "but  it  has  been  aw- 
fully hard  for  him,  having  Bob  in  the  business,  practically  to 
educate,  you  may  say!" 

"Bertie's  more  use  than  Uncle  Bob!"  Esme  added  loyally. 


1 84    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  it!"  Tina  observed,  re- 
pressively. 

"I  know  Aunt  Fanny  said  so!"  Esme  returned  with  spirit. 

"I  thought  Fanny  and  Bob  were  terribly  intimate?"  Lucy 
said  interestedly.     May  shrugged. 

"He's  not  living  with  Fanny  and  Pa,  I  know  that!"  she  said. 

"For  pity's  sake!"  Lucy  had  unearthed  gossip  at  last. 
"Since  when?" 

"Oh "    May  scratched  her  full  soft  faded  chin  and  stared 

at  the  sky.     "Girls,  when  did  Bobo  come  over  here?"  she  asked. 

"A  week  to-morrow,  Mama!" 

"Well,  then,  it  was  a  week  ago  to-day  that  Pa  and  Bob  had  a 
terrible  quarrel,  and  Fanny  sent  for  Stephen.  Bob  said  he'd 
leave  the  firm,  and  Stephen  says  that  he  has  quite  determined 
that  Bob  shall  leave  it,  the  minute — anything  happens — to  poor 
Pa!  Fanny  says  that  Pa  has  left  poor  little  Bobo  this  house — 
well,  of  course,  if  he  has,  it  only  shows  how  pitiably  Pa  is  break- 
ing." May  said  sensibly,  "and  Steve  says  that  he  almost  feels 
— he  almost  feels  that  it  may  be  our  duty  to  take  out  a  guard- 
ianship for  poor  Pa " 

"Only  Papa  naturally  feels  that  he  ought  to  be  the  one  to 

have  it,  and  Aunt  Fanny  says  that  she  is  the  one,  and  so " 

Victoria  was  beginning  candidly,  when  her  mother  interrupted 
her  sharply: 

"Never  mind,  Vicky — we  needn't  go  into  that!" 

"But  Mama " 

"Never  mind,  dear!" 

Victoria  subsided,  and  May  resumed,  in  her  comfortable, 
reasonable  tone: 

"Poor  little  Bobo — we're  getting  quite  fond  of  him!  After 
Bob  and  Pa  quarrelled,  Fanny  was  very  anxious  about  him,  for 
she  has  been  so  worried,  and  so  busy  she  was  almost  beside  her- 
self!    So  I  suggested  that  we  take  the  little  fellow  for  a  visit  and 

she  was  so  relieved!     He "     May  dropped  her  voice,  looked 

gravely  at  Lucy,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Delicate?"  Lucy  asked,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Can't  live!"  May  almost  whispered  it.  "No  stamina!" 
she  said. 

Lucy  perfectly  understood  the  situation.  Small  as  he  was. 
Rob's  baby  was  an  important  figure  in  the  family  situation. 
If  he  was  with  his  Aunt  May  when  old  Reuben  died,  and  if 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  185 

Robert  was  really  dropped  from  the  family  firm,  what  more 
natural  than  that  the  child,  inheriting  the  San  Rafael  home- 
stead, should  continue  to  live  there  with  May,  for  what  remained 
of  his  poor  little  life  ? 

"The  minute  we  realize  that  Pa  is  near  the  end,"  May  pur- 
sued, with  solemn  satisfaction,  "I  shall  go  straight  over  to 
Fanny,  leaving  the  girls  in  charge  here,  and  I  shall  not  leave  him 
again.  Stephen  thinks,  with  me,  that  my  place,  at  that  time,  is 
there!     I  am  to  have  Carra's  room,  and  she  will  go  upstairs." 

"Aunt  Fanny  says  she  doesn't  care  how  soon  it  comes,  she  is 
ready  for  anything,  if  only  Grandpa  will — will  find  the  real 
happiness — the  real  truth,  in — in  God — at  the  end!"  Tina  said, 
her  eyes  watering  with  the  effort  of  expressing  herself.  There 
was  an  embarrassed  pause;  of  late  months  Tina  had  not  in- 
frequently touched  upon  subjects  generally  felt  to  be  too  sacred 
for  open  conversation,  yet  it  was  conceded  that  Tina,  because 
of  her  church  interests  and  her  intimacy  with  Mr.  Yelland,  was 
becomingly  interested  in  these  matters. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,"  Lucy  said,  feeling  that  it  was  very 
much  her  business,  "but  I  should  like  to  know  just  why  that 
baby  should  be  made  such  a  fuss  about!" 

"Well,  Pa  was  always  a  little  partial  to  Rob,  and  then  the 
baby's  his  grandson " 

"Georgie's  his  grandson!"  Lucy  said  roundly. 

"Oh,  and  Bertie,  too!"  May  sighed,  and  fell  into  a  musing 
wish  that  she  had  seen  a  little  more  of  the  Harry  Crabtree 
children,  years  ago,  had  drawn  Pa's  attention  to  little  George. 
Lucy  and  Harry  were  harmless  rivals,  very  different  from  the 
buoyant  Rob,  with  his  breezy  insincere  laugh,  and  his  annoying 
tendency  to  supplant  worthier  persons,  and  wedge  himself  and 
his  interests  into  the  very  holy  of  holies. 

The  baby  himself  was  waking  now,  with  acid  little  wails,  and 
Victoria  brought  him,  rolled  in  wet  blankets,  to  the  steps,  for 
a  moment,  before  carrying  him  upstairs  for  bath  and  supper. 
He  was  a  mottled,  wrinkled  infant,  with  claw-like  little  hands, 
abnormally  thin  legs,  and  a  totally  bald  head.  His  relatives 
looked  at  him  dispassionately,  but  Vicky  hugged  him  toward  her 
affectionately,  as  she  carried  him  away. 

Nelly  went  upstairs,  too,  and  when  Vicky  had  the  baby  on 
his  back  on  her  bed,  Nelly  said  timidly: 

"You  know  I'm  going  to  have  one,  too?" 


1 86  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Yes,  I  know!"  Vicky  said,  with  a  conscious  look,  safety- 
pins  in  her  mouth.  "Give  me  that  cornstarch,  Nelly!  Yes, 
Alice  told  me.     Are — are  you  glad?" 

"Oh,  of  course!"  Nelly  said,  rather  lifelessly. 

"I  saw  Davy,  last  week,"  Vicky  said  suddenly.  She  glanced 
at  Nelly,  a  little  afraid  that  the  allusion  might  be  unfortunate. 
But  after  ten  months  on  the  ranch,  Nelly  felt  herself  definitely 
removed  from  the  old  uncertain  days  of  flirting  and  speculating, 
and  she  laughed  naturally. 
;    "  Poor  Davy !     I  did  treat  him  horridly !     Did  he  ask  for  me  ? " 

"We  talked  about  you.  He's  going  to  be  a  doctor,  you  know. 
He's  in  Doctor  Hughes's  office,  mornings,  and  takes  care  of  his 
horse.  And  he  goes  to  the  medical  college.  His  aunt  has 
rheumatism  or  something;  she's  at  home  with  his  mother,  now. 
He  looked  awfully  shabby.     But  I  like  Davy!"  Vicky  said. 

Nelly  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  mean  to  him!"  she  mused. 

"You  fell  in  love!"  the  other  girl  stated,  with  a  laugh. 

But  Nelly  only  frowned  faintly. 

"Falling  in  love  is  different  from  what  you  think  it  is,  Vick," 
she  said  slowly. 

"It  carries  you  off* your  feet,  I  know  that!"  Vicky  said. 

"No — that's  exactly  it!  It  doesn't!"  Nelly  answered 
quickly.  "A  few  weeks  after  you  are  married  you  try  to  re- 
member how  you  felt,  and  what  made  you  act  so — so  positively, 
and  you  can't  remember.  You  only  know  that  you  did  this 
or  did  that,  and  you  must  have  wanted  to!  And  you  look  at 
your  husband  sometimes,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  the  same 
person — oh,  he's  nice,  and  you  love  him,  you  know! — but  he 
doesn't  seem  the  same  person  that  you  used  to  meet  accidentally 
in  the  street,  and  laugh  and — and  flirt  with,  and  feel  so  strange 
about!" 

Victoria,  the  warm,  dry  baby  in  her  arms,  listened  in  fascina- 
tion, as  dreamers  of  old  might  have  listened  to  travelled  Marco 
Polo.  Both  young  women  started,  as  May,  stout,  gray,  a  little 
breathless,  came  in  with  the  baby's  bottle. 

"Vicky,"  said  her  mother  that  night,  when  Nelly  and  Lucy  \ 
were  long  gone,  "what  were  you  and  Nelly  talking  about  to-day, 
dear?" 

"When,  Mama?" 

"When  I  came  upstairs,  dear?" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    187 

"Why,  I  don't  know.     Nothing,  Mama!" 
"You  weren't  saying  anything  that  you  wouldn't  wish  Mama 
to  hear?" 

"No,  ma'am."     Victoria's  face  was  scarlet. 

"You  will  be  careful  about  that,  won't  you,  Vicky?" 

"Yes,  Mama." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  dreamy  autumn  days  slipped  by,  the  thinning  sun- 
light made  briefer  and  briefer  stays  in  the  Brewers'  garden, 
and  presently,  on  the  dry  pumpkin  vines  and  crushed 
thistles  near  the  stable  there  was  the  glitter  of  the  first  frosts 
on  bright,  chilly  mornings,  and  in  the  shady  paths  down  by  the 
evergreen  hedge  the  ground  was  slippery  with  dark  films  of  moss. 
Great  spiders'  webs  were  sketched  in  gray  upon  the  cedars,  the 
pampas  plumes  were  dirty  yellowish  brown,  and  in  the  rough 
dirt  roads  of  the  little  country  town  pools  of  rain  water  reflected 
the  pale  blue,  remote  arch  of  the  sky. 

Somehow  the  Brewer  girls  kept  themselves  amused.  There 
were  occasional  trips  to  town,  occasional  new  gowns  to  discuss, 
occasional  minute  changes  among  their  little  affairs  that  in- 
terested and  employed  them.  They  altered  their  rooms,  bring- 
ing this  bookcase  up  from  the  parlour,  sending  that  old  chair  to 
the  attic,  dusting,  wiping  walls,  charmed  with  the  novelty  of  the 
new  arrangement.  They  took  turns  with  the  care  of  the  baby, 
an  alternate  annoyance  and  pleasure.  They  walked,  played 
euchre,  cooked  when  Fricka  had  gone  and  Annie  not  yet  arrived, 
and  fussed  with  orris  root  and  China  silk  for  Christmas  presents. 
Louisianna  and  Tina  were  flattered  by  an  invitation  to  the  com- 
ing-out dance  of  Miss  Louisa  Persons,  in  January;  their  mother 
took  them  to  town  with  carefully  packed  "telescope"  straw  bas- 
kets neatly  strapped,  containing  party  gowns,  and  they  stayed 
that  night  at  Aunt  Fanny's  house.  They  came  home  flushed 
and  confident  with  pleasure,  the  next  day  "everyone"  had 
known  Mama,  and  everyone  had  been  lovely  to  them,  and  Lily 
Duvalette  had  told  them  to  tell  Esme  to  come  see  her  baby  boy, 
and  Willy  Barker  and  Bernardo  Baker  had  said  that  they  were 
coming  to  San  Rafael  Sunday.  This  social  excitement  carried 
all  the  girls  through  several  weeks  of  complacence,  especially 
as  the  young  men  did  call,  on  a  dripping  Sunday,  and  were  kept 
for  supper  amid  much  laughter  and  pleasantness. 

188 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    189 

Early  in  March  Lucy  came  over  to  tell  them  that  Nelly  had 
a  baby  girl,  born  a  few  weeks  early,  and  so  before  she,  Lucy, 
could  go  to  the  ranch  as  she  had  planned,  for  the  event.  Nelly 
was  well,  and  had  written  herself,  on  the  fifth  day,  to  say  that 
Hildegarde  sent  love  and  kiss  to  Grandma. 

Fanny  had  chanced  to  be  coming  to  San  Rafael,  too,  on  this 
warm,  bright  mid-week  morning,  and,  finding  May  without  a 
servant  of  any  kind,  the  visitors  felt  the  more  free  to  remain  to 
lunch,  and  there  was  informal  enjoyment  of  the  meal  that  the 
girls  scrambled  together  with  much  waste  of  effort,  and  much 
running  to  and  fro. 

The  baby,  a  pallid,  good  little  creature,  sitting  apathetically 
in  the  sunny  path,  and  firmly  holding  the  spoon  he  apparently 
had  no  interest  in  using,  cried  and  screamed  in  terror  at  the  sight 
of  the  rattling  jet  ornaments  upon  Fanny's  new,  long-tabbed 
cape  and  high,  narrow  bonnet,  and  under  her  smiling  displeasure 
was  carried  from  sight. 

"Bless  us,  what  a  little  coward!"  said  Fanny,  displeased. 

"  Poor  little  soul,  I  shall  be  almost  glad  when  it's  over — for  his 
sake,"  Lucy  said. 

"I  suppose  Bob  will  feel  it,"  May  added. 

"Oh,  Bob!"  Fanny  said,  vigorously.  "Nobody  ever  knows 
what  he  feels  or  doesn't  feel!  You  know  how  he's  treated 
Pa — walking  out  of  the  house,  and  going  to  the  Southerlands — 
that  boarding-house  on  Sutter  and  Taylor,  you  know,  May? 
Well,  that  was  October,  and  all  this  time  he's  been  treating  Pa 
as  coolly  as  you  please,  going  in  and  out  of  the  office  with  just 
'How  are  you,  Steve !'  or,  if  Pa  was  there — and  he  would  go  down 
once  or  twice! — 'How  do,  Pa!'  And  now — about  a  week  ago, 
if  he  doesn't  walk  in,  one  evening,  to  see  if  Pa  didn't  want  to  play 
cribbage.  'Oh,  no,  Mister  Rob,'  I  said  to  myself,  'that's  a  little 
too  cool!"  But  poor  Pa  had  heard  his  voice,  and — if  you  please, 
1 — Bob  has  been  to  dinner  every  night  since,  and  he  stays  to  help 
Carra  get  Pa  upstairs,  and  of  course  poor  Pa  looks  forward  to 
the  cribbage,  so  that  really  I  don't  know  what  to  do!" 

"Do!"  May  said,  breathing  hard.  "I  wouldn't  stand  it! 
Steve  says  that  we  could  get  a  guardianship  of  Pa  to-morrow " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Fanny  said,  with  a  cautious  glance  toward 
the  kitchen,  where  the  girls  were  washing  lunch  dishes,  "but 
suppose  Rob  took  Pa's  part,  and  fought  it? " 

"Exactly,"  Lucy  contributed  softly. 


190  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Bob  Crabtree,"  May  said  angrily,  "has  been  in  California 
exactly  three  years — less  than  three  years !  Does  he  think — does 
he  think  that  he  can  step  in  here,  after  we've  put  up  with  Pa  for 
all  these  years,  and  be  the  one  to  champion  and  befriend  Pa,  and 
set  him  against  all  the  rest  of  us,  and  defy  Stephen  and  you  and 
me,  who  have  always  done  what  we  thought  best  for  Pa " 

"That's  exactly  what  he  does  think!"  Fanny,  high  colour  in 
her  lined  face,  said  grimly. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  that's  outrageous!"  May  said  hotly. 

"It  is  outrageous,"  Lucy  said.  The  sisters  glanced  at  her, 
simultaneously  impressed  with  the  impropriety  of  Pa's  mere 
daughter-in-law  expressing  so  intimate  a  criticism. 

"I  wish  now,  Fanny — but  then  I  always  did ! — that  you  had 
not  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  move  Pa  to  town!"  May  said, 
gently. 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it!"  Fanny  countered, 
instantly  tart,  and  beating  her  nose. 

"Well,  he  would  have  been  here,  among  the  girls,  where  we 
could  all  have  shown  him  how  truly  his  happiness  mattered  to 
us,  how  perfectly — hypocritical  Rob's  ridiculous  pretentions  to 
being  so — so  devoted  to  him,  are!"  May  said,  finding  the  senti- 
ment a  little  hard  to  define,  but  ending  upon  a  triumphant  con- 
viction that  she  had  mastered  it. 

"If  it's  hard  for  you,  May,"  Fanny  said,  with  a  suddenly  red- 
dening nose  and  blinking  eyes,  "for  me  it's — it's  simply  terri- 
ble! You  know  how  I  have  devoted  myself  to  Pa — never  mar- 
ried, practically  gave  him  my  whole  life!  Why,  back  in  the  old 
Powell  Street  house,  before  Tina  was  born,  I  remember  telling 
poor  Dick  Folsom "  | 

"Who  killed  himself  for  the  Fargo  girl?"  Lucy  remembered 
interestedly. 

"Well,  that  was  years  later!"  Fanny  said,  annoyed.  "But  I 
have  never  failed  Pa  in  the  least  particular,"  she  went  on 
firmly,  blowing  her  nose,  "and  I  won't  put  up  with  it,  and  I 
can't  put  up  with  it,  having  Rob  preferred  before  me,  and  having 
to  tell  Maggie  to  set  an  extra  place  for  Mr.  Rob,  and  having 
him  ignore  me,  at  my  own  table !" 

"I  remember  telling  dear  old  Stephen,  coming  home  on  the 
boat — let's  see,  it  was  a  year  ago  Christmas — that  I  thought  it 
was  a  great  mistake  for  you  to  put  Rob  at  the  head  of  the  family, 
as  it  were "  May  said,  with  mild  satisfaction.  / 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    191 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Fanny  snapped  with  a  quick  glance, 
beginning  to  beat  the  tip  of  her  nose  to  and  fro. 

"Why,  you  had  the  dinner  at  your  house,  Fanny,  and  Rob 
carved " 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  Fanny  said  warmly,  "that  was  because 
Papa  was  so  ill.  I  certainly  didn't  do  that  for  Bob.  The  idea 
of " 

"Why,  Fanny,  at  poor  Ella's  funeral,  I  remember  your  cry- 
ing, and  telling  Rob  that  he  must  brace  up — he  was  the  head  of 
the  family  now " 

"I  remember  that,  too,"  Lucy  said,  noncommittally. 

"Oh,  I  remember  it  perfectly!"  May  echoed  confidently, 
reinforced. 

"I  never  heard  such  nonsense!"  Fanny  said  with  an  angry 
laugh  and  a  scarlet  face.  She  tossed  the  bugled  bonnet,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders  in  great  disdain.  "Dear  me,  it  is  in- 
teresting to  know  that  one  is  being  spied  upon,  even  at  a  fun- 
eral!" she  said,  in  a  high,  shaking  voice.  "I  suppose,  next 
thing: " 

"Listen — !  Listen,  Fanny,"  May  began  pacifically.  But 
Fanny  was  near  to  tears  now,  and  would  listen  to  nothing. 

"Oh,  no,  May,  you  and  Lucy  have  always  been  against  me, 
and  Fve  known  it  perfectly  well ! "  she  said,  passionately.  "  Don't 
say  one  word — any  one  could  see  that!  Whatever  I  do,  what- 
ever I  say,  however  devoted  I  am  to  my  own  family,  you  and 
Lucy — and  Stephen,  too! — are  only  too  pleased  to  spy  and 
criticize  me — and  you  set  the  girls  against  me — I  see  it!  Don't 
think  I  don't!  And  you  set  Papa  against  me,  too — I  know  it 
perfectly  well — Papa,  who  is  all  I  have  left — since  Mama 
died " 

May  looked  frightened  and  her  eyes  filled  at  this  outburst; 
Lucy  was  sympathetic  and  uncomfortable  if  less  disturbed. 
Fanny  was  given  not  infrequently  to  tirades  filled  with  hysterical 
self-pity,  and  although  she  meant  every  word  she  said  at  the 
moment,  she  soon  subsided  into  heavy  tears  and  deep  sobbing, 
followed  by  snifflings,  proud  apologies,  and  a  much  happier 
frame  of  mind.  She  rushed  upstairs  now,  and,  after  a  suitable 
interval,  during  which  the  girls  came  forth  from  the  kitchen 
with  scared  faces  and  murmured  with  their  elders  in  the  lower 
hall,  Esme  was  appointed  to  run  up  after  her.  Soon  they  were 
all  upstairs,  Fanny,  on  the  spare-room  bed,  her  face  still  tear- 


192    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

stained,  quite  gaily  the  centre  of  an  easily  amused  and  eagerly 
talkative  group. 

They  had  been  getting  Bertie's  room  in  order  when  the  visi- 
tors had  interrupted  them,  and  when  Fanny  and  Lucy  left  they 
went  back  to  the  pleasant  big  apartment,  which  faced  the  south 
and  west  with  bay-windows,  and  so  was  flooded  now  with  spring 
sunlight.  Curtains  were  down  to-day,  windows  open,  buckets 
of  cooling  suds  and  mops  and  brooms  stood  about.  The  paper- 
ers  were  gone,  and  Bertie  would  take  possession  to-night  of 
totally  transformed   quarters. 

While  the  girls,  with  infinite  directing  and  changing,  hung  the 
stiff  white  Nottingham  lace  curtains,  May  sat  in  one  of  the 
windows,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  watched  comfortably. 
Below,  the  yard  was  bright  with  new  grass,  there  were  pink 
blossoms  on  the  old  peach  trees,  and  the  syringa  bushes  were 
masses  of  fragrant,  creamy  bloom. 

"It  seems  to  me  so  important  to  keep  the  boy  happy  in  his 
own  home,"  May  said  sententiously.  "I  want  him  to  feel  that 
he  has  the  most  devoted  Mama  and  sisters  of  any  boy  in  the 
world!  And  that's  why  I  tell  you  girls  that  it  is  your  duty  not 
to  sit  comfortably  reading,  in  the  evenings" —  May  was  falling 
into  her  favourite  moralizing  tone — "but  to  do  something 
that  amuses  Bertie — cards,  some  game  that  will  make  him 
associate  pleasant  times  with  his  home!  Esme  and  Tina  have 
been  sweet  and  dear  about  it " 

"And  what  about  me,  Mama?"  Vicky  said  good-naturedly, 
as  she  ran  a  thin  brass  rod  through  the  stiffened  hem  of  a  curtain. 
"Don't  I  play  euchre  with  Papa  and  Bertie  until  I'm  so  sleepy 
I  can't  see?" 

"You  haven't  been  very  nice  about  it,  darling,"  her  mother 
said  gently,  glad  of  the  invitation  to  rebuke.  "Two  nights 
ago " 

"Two  nights  ago  what  happened?"  Victoria  took  her  up 
vivaciously.  "Bertie  was  dying  to  go  up  to  Neil  Powers',  and 
he  said  he  was,  and  you  and  Papa  perfectly  well  knew  he  was. 
And  Papa  told  him  to  stay  home  and  be  satisfied  with  his  sisters, 
and  I  did  begin  a  game  with  him,  but  he  was  so  sulky  that  he 
wouldn't  even  hold  up  his  cards,  and  he  kept  squirming  and 
sighing,  and  finally  I  said,  'Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  go  !  Get  out! 
Anything's  better  than  having  you  hanging  about  here  if  you 
don't  want  to F  " 


y  >f 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  193 

"Vicky,  you  interrupted  Mama,"  May  said,  in  disapproval, 
as  the  girl  paused.  And  over  Victoria's  instant  murmur  of 
apology  she  resumed :  "  Boys  are  very,  very  different  from  girls. 
Their  temptations  are  greater,  they  see  more  of  the  world,  they 
get  tired  out  in  business " 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  see  more  of  the  world,  and  get  tired  out  in 
business!"  Louisianna  said  rebelliously,  "and  I  agree  with  Vick 
that  it's  perfectly  sickening  to  have  to  sit  about  and  amuse  and 
coax  a  great  big  husky  boy  who  wants,  all  the  time,  to  run  off 
somewhere  else!     I  say,  let  him  go!" 

Louisianna  was  the  youngest  and  prettiest  of  the  group,  and 
so  her  mother  was  a  little  softer  with  her  than  with  the  older 
girls.     Now  May  said  reproachfully: 

"Baby — Baby!  Is  that  a  nice  way  for  a  little  sister  to  talk? 
We  want  our  Bertie  to  grow  to  be  a  good,  fine  man,  we  want  to 
save  him  from  the  dangers  of  life — of  which,"  said  the  mother 
more  firmly,  "you  girls  have  not  the  least  idea — as  you  shouldn't 
have,  of  course." 

"I  suppose  Kitty  Barbee  is  one  of  them!"  Vicky  said, 
wickedly.  "Well,  Mama,  I  hope  he  jilts  Kitty,"  she  added, 
laughing,  "and  marries  little  Lola  Espinosa,  and  that  he  finds 
he's  made  a  fine  bargain  with  that  little  Spanish  spitfire,  and 
never  inherits  one  cent  of  her  uncle's  millions!" 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Vicky,"  her  mother 
said  warmly.  "  I  don't  think  that's  nice — even  in  joke.  Some- 
times you  and  Lou — and  she  gets  it  from  you! — sometimes  you 
and  Lou  talk  as  if  you  were  actually  strong-minded.  And  that 
isn't  the  sort  of  women  men  admire,  my  dear — you'll  find  that 
out!" 

"Bertie  may  admire  us,  but  he  takes  other  girls  out,  I 
notice,"  Vicky  said  slyly,  "and  if  ever  you  want  him  to  take  one 
of  us,  even  to  a  dance  here  in  San  Rafael,  you'd  think  he  was 
going  to  be  killed.  He's  never  home  on  Sunday,  any  more,  he 
never  brings  young  men  here " 

"That  will  do!"  May  said,  now  really  displeased.  "I  am 
extremely  sorry  that  my  daughters  cannot  find  anything  kind  to 
say  about  their  brother!"  she  added  with  spirit,  "nothing  but 
criticism  and  recrimination!  You  girls  live  here  in  this  beauti- 
ful home,  protected  and  indulged  in  every  way,  and  with  never 
a  moment's  care  or  responsibility,  and  yet  you  cannot  be  gen- 
erous to  your  poor  brother,  who  must  go  out  into  the  world  and 


i94    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

support  himself — perhaps  some  day  support  us  all!  I  call  it 
very  unkind  of  you — "  said  May,  with  watering  eyes,  "and 
very  selfish " 

"Not  me,  Mama!"  Tina  said  lovingly,  on  her  knees  beside 
her  mother's  lap. 

"Not  you,  darling,  and  not  Esme,  who  is  always  Mama's 
comfort ! " 

"You  and  I  are  popular,  Vick,"  Louisianna  said  stoically, 
from  the  ladder. 

May  sniffed,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  cast  upon  the  rebels  a  re- 
sentful glance.  She  knew  there  was  no  hope  of  softening  Vicky 
and  Lou  in  this  particular  mood.  In  a  few  minutes  she  re- 
proachfully enlisted  Tina's  offices,  and  they  carried  the  baby 
away.  The  others  discussed  the  matter  over  the  last  touches 
to  Bertie's  room. 

"I  notice  our  rooms  get  papered  and  cleaned,  to  keep  us  home 
evenings!"  Louisianna  said,  bitterly. 

"Oh,  it  makes  me  tired!"  Victoria  had  made  the  bed,  and 
was  now  crimping  the  great  ruffled  pillow-shams  with  im- 
patient fingers.  "  Boys — and  temptations  and  seeing  the  world ! 
If  they  haven't  character  enough  to  keep  straight " 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  like  that,  Vick!"  Esme  said, 
startled.     "You  don't  know  anything  about  boys'  lives!" 

"Vicky,"  Louisianna  said,  curiously,  "how'd  you  feel  if 
Bertie  really  did  marry  Lola  Espinosa?" 

"He  won't,"  Victoria  said,  with  some  obscure  satisfaction, 
"he's  crazy  about  Kitty!" 

"But  imagine — Lola's  uncle  sends  her  three  hundred  dollars 
a  month — pretty  nice  for  Bertie!"  Louisianna  pursued,  over- 
awed at  the  mere  thought. 

"Doesn't  that  make  you  sick!"  Victoria  scowled.  She  had 
a  brief  vision  of  all  that  she  could  do  with  this  sum — travel, 
far  cities,  plumed  hats,  and  the  glittering  decks  of  ocean  ships. 
"And  she  doesn't  do  one  thing  for  it!"  she  added  bitterly. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  you  have  a  good  home  and  a  father 
to  take  care  of  you!"  Esme  said,  half-heartedly.  "Mama 
says  that  some  day  we'll  all  look  back  on  these  days,  and  wonder 
why  we  weren't  always  on  our  knees,  thanking  God  for  protecting 
us  from  the  world !  Look  at  poor  Aunt  Lucy  and  Alice !  Mama 
says  that  they  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn!" 

"Yes,  I  know "  Victoria  said,  struck  with   her  own  in- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  I9S 

gratitude.     They  fell  to  discussing,  in  low  and  cautious  tones, 
Nelly  and  the  baby. 

Bertie  himself  was  far  from  being  the  care-free  and  debonair 
young  sociahfavourite  that  his  sisters  enviously  fancied  him.  He 
was  almost  as  unfitted  as  they  to  meet  life,  but  the  accident  of 
his  sex  had  placed  him  in  a  position  to  learn  rapidly  and  pain- 
fully just  how  unimportant  the  son  of  the  vice-president  may  be 
in  an  old  family  firm.  He  had  begun  his  experience  with  Crab- 
tree  and  Company  full  of  buoyant,  almost  offensive,  self-con- 
fidence. The  salary  seemed  large  to  him,  the  freedom  from 
schooling  almost  intoxicating,  and  the  deference  paid  him  by 
much  older  men,  as  his  grandfather's  and  father's  natural  suc- 
cessor, had  quite  gone  to  his  head. 

To  exchange  a  few  family  confidences  with  old  "R.  E."  and 
to  go  to  lunch  daily  with  his  father,  had  given  Bertie  a  quite 
adventitious  importance,  for  a  few  weeks,  and  during  that  time 
he  had  fatally  affected  the  opinion  of  all  his  associates.  When 
he  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  disliked,  avoided,  and  ridiculed 
by  the  entire  staff  of  employees,  and  treated  with  quiet  con- 
tempt by  the  heads  of  departments  and  the  directors,  it  was  too 
late.  Bertie  could  not  undo  now  the  effect  of  weeks  of  arrogance 
and  boasting,  he  could  not  efface  the  memory  of  snubs  he  had 
administered,  and  tales  he  had  carried  eagerly  to  his  father,  of 
this  one's  carelessness  and  that  one's  inefficiency. 

Of  his  own  mistakes,  and  they  were  many,  he  had  to  bear  the 
full  consequence. 

"I  think  those  are  Mr.  Albert  Brewer's  figures,"  Yeasley, 
the  head  bookkeeper,  would  say  firmly,  to  Bertie's  shame  and 
Stephen's  annoyance.  "You  left  that  message  with  Bertie," 
old  Crane  would  state,  more  familiarly;  "in  the  twenty-one 
years  I've  been  here,  I  never  let  an  order  slip  like  that,  yet!" 

Bertie  had  times  of  feeling  himself  a  martyr  on  the  wheel 
of  family  ambition,  tied  in  the  rotten  old  office,  with  everyone 
acting  so  rottenly  toward  him,  and  with  nothing  but  rotten  old 
ledgers  to  work  on.  There  were  other  times  when  the  routine 
of  life  carried  him  along,  comfortable  and  unprotesting,  like  a 
tide,  and  not  infrequent  intervals  when  theatres,  plans  with  his 
friends,  Sunday  yachting  trips  and  picnics  with  the  enchanting 
Kitty  blotted  all  unpleasantness  from  his  mind  and  made  him 
feel  existence  a  pleasant  hurry  of  enjoyment.     Bertie  knew  him- 


196  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

self  quite  captivating  in  his  white  duck  trousers  and  straw  hat, 
and  with  Kitty's  uncritical  crowd  he  passed  for  a  flirt  and  a  wit. 

The  contrast  between  Bertie's  progress  and  that  of  his  Uncle 
Robert,  was  a  source  of  deep  irritation  to  Stephen,  and  in 
lesser  degree  to  Bertie  himself.  Robert  Crabtree  had  returned 
to  the  firm  with  a  glamour  of  eastern  experience  about  him,  and 
yet  with  a  familiarity  with  San  Francisco  and  western  condi- 
tions that  only  a  native  son  could  possess.  His  breezy  manner, 
friendly,  eager,  quick  with  praise  and  laughter,  was  delightfully 
welcome  to  the  stale  atmosphere  of  the  old  spice  house.  He  re- 
membered names,  faces,  characteristics,  he  met  customers  at 
trains  or  boats,  lunched  with  them,  sent  flowers  to  their  wives. 

Stephen's  attitude  toward  "the  trade"  had  always  been 
quite  consciously  superior;  Crabtree  and  Company  were  the 
benefactors  always,  the  great  community  convenience  and  bless- 
ing. The  young  markets  of  the  state,  tomato  and  corn  canning, 
prune  drying,  jam  and  chutney  making,  would  have  been  in  a 
pretty  fix,  Stephen  used  to  say,  without  Crabtree  and  Company! 
The  bulky  ingredients  of  the  popular  Painter's  Catsup  were 
no  more  important  than  the  cloves  and  ginger  and  pepper  that 
were  measured  into  it,  and  where  was  there  any  other  firm,  from 
Seattle  to  Los  Angeles,  that  could  show  forty  years  of  experience 
in  gathering  together  capers  and  carraway  seed,  peppercorns 
and  bayleaves,  for  the  convenience  of  Painter  and  Painter? 

In  the  tea  and  coffee  lines  there  were  many  rivals,  yet  con- 
servative old  firms  in  San  Jose  and  Sacramento  always  dealt 
with  Crabtree  and  Company,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
why  the  mail-order  end  of  the  business  should  not  naturally 
expand  with  the  rapidly  expanding  state. 

"How  long  since  you've  been  up  over  that  Marysville  and 
Napa  region,  Steve?"  Rob  said,  one  June  morning,  when  he  had 
been  eighteen  months  with  the  business. 

i  *.,  "How  do  you  mean?"  Stephen  said,  always  uneasy  under  his 
brother-in-law's  casual  suggestions.  Old  Reuben  was  present 
this  morning,  half  asleep  in  his  revolving  chair,  but  adding  to 
Stephen's  sensitiveness. 

"I  mean — who  travels  round,  up  there?  To  let  'em  know 
that  the  firm's  alive?" 

Stephen  smiled  patiently. 

"They  know  the  firm's  alive,  Bob,  never  worry  about  that! 
I  don't  know  half  of  them — never  did " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  197 

"I  went  up  there  myself,  twelve  years  ago!"  the  old  man 
piped  unexpectedly.  "Seen  a  lot  of  them  fellers — went  into 
their  stores  and  set  with  'em!" 

His  son-in-law  glanced  at  him  indulgently,  but  Bob  nodded 
with  approval. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean,  Steve!  There's  an  awful  lot  in 
knowing  those  old  birds — firms  change,  you  know,  and  their  line 
changes!  The  personal  touch  is  damned  important — if  you  ask 
me " 

"I  suppose  I  asked  you!"  Stephen  said  good-naturedly. 

"Well,  you  didn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  But  that's  the  way  to 
hold  business,  Steve!" 

A  clerk  came  in  and  presented  Stephen  with  a  telegram.  He 
read  it  aloud  before  pigeonholing  it  in  his  desk. 

"'Please  double  order  of  May  ninth.  Shipment  arrived, 
everything  satisfactory.' " 

It  was  signed  by  the  largest  grocery  firm  in  Los  Angeles. 
Stephen  glanced  humorously  at  his  father-in-law,  straightened 
his  amused  mouth,  and  turned  deferentially  to  Robert. 

"Well,  come  on,  Rob!"  he  said,  in  high  feather;  "tell  me 
how  to  do  more  business,  eh?" 

"If  you  had  a  man,"  Rob  persisted,  a  trifle  daunted,  but  by 
no  means  silenced,  "  some  fellow  cruising  about  up  there,  say  once 
a  year,  getting  into  personal  touch,  'Hello,  Mr.  Brown,  how's 
the  baby?'  'Good-morning,  Judge  White,  did  you  sell  your 
trotter?' — that  sort  of  thing! — you'd  find  it  was  a  mighty  good 
thing  for  the  firm." 

"Yes?  Well,  I  have  something  else  to  do  this  morning  than 
ask  questions  about  grocers'  babies  in  Oroville,"  Stephen  said, 
unruffled.  "It'd  cost  me — us — two  or  three  hundred  dollars, 
perhaps  more,  a  month,  and  I  don't  see  it  coming  back,  myself! 
It'd  be  a  mighty  nice  vacation,  for  somebody,  but  it's  been  a 
good  many  years  since  I  had  a  vacation,  and  I  think  it'll  be  a 
good  many  more  before  I  see  the  need  of  that  sort  of  thing!" 

Robert  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  back  to  the  third 
desk  that  had  been  put  into  the  President's  office.  Stephen 
presently  was  called  away,  and  then  the  old  father  and  son 
were  alone  together. 

"Steve's  wrong,"  said  the  old  man  then,  with  a  chuckle; 
"them  little  grocers  don't  stay  little,  forever.  I  used  to  know 
'em  all,  myself.     He's  kinder  high  and  mighty,  Steve  is." 


198    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"He  ought  to  get  out  a  little  illustrated  catalogue,  at  least," 
Rob  said,  frowning.  "But  he  says  he  won't  spend  one  cent  on 
showing  people  what  cans  of  cinnamon  and  packages  of  tea 
look  like!" 

They  both  laughed. 

"He's  sort  of  ruffled  over  young  Houston,"  Robert  confided. 

"What's  he  been  doing?"  the  President  asked,  with  a  spas- 
modic semblance  of  wideawakeness.  "Wasn't  there  talk  of 
raising  him,  last  month?" 

"He's  going  over  to  Finch — it's  too  bad,  of  course;  he's  a  nice 
young  fellow.  But  they've  made  him  some  sort  of  a  proposi- 
tion, and  Steve  got  a  little  bit  hot  about  it,  and  the  upshot 
was  that  Houston  got  mad  and  he  won't  listen  to  anything, 
now!  I  told  Stephen  some  weeks  ago  that  I  thought  he  was 
worth  more — he's  been  getting  one  hundred  and  fifty  a  month. 
Bertie  gets  that  now.  I  think  it's  a  pity  to  let  him  go,  myself. 
We  need  his  kind ! " 

"Well — well — well — well!"  the  old  man  said,  cackling; 
"Stephen  is  a  remarkable  man — in  his  way,  Bob,  in  his  way! 
Might  make  him  that  Marysville  proposition  again,  some  time, 
and  suggest  that  he  send  Bertie!  Ye  might  get  another  answer 
then!" 

"Woolcock's  the  man  to  go!"  Rob  said  quickly.  "Bertie 
couldn't  do  anything!" 

"  You  re  the  man  to  go,  do  a  lot  of  talking  and  drinking,  get 
'em  all  interested,"  his  father  said.  "But  you  won't  get  much 
chance!  Well" —  his  tone  reached  its  favourite  level  of  genial 
reminiscence — "I  made  my  own  mistakes,  Bob!"  he  said. 

"Sure!"  Bob  said  roundly,  "everyone  does!" 

"But  there's  mistakes  you  find  out  about,  and  then  there's 
the  kind  you  never  see,  Robbit,"  said  old  Reuben,  "and  you 
ain't  going  to  learn  much  from  things  you  haven't  got  sense 
to  see!" 

Stephen  returned  abruptly,  and  saw  that  they  had  been 
talking  about  him.  He  settled  to  his  work  with  a  look  of 
patient  and  kindly  endurance. 

A  few  weeks  later  Bertie  went  ofF  for  his  three  weeks'  tour 
of  the  northern  country  towns,  a  real  journey,  to  Bertie,  and 
the  cause  of  almost  unbearable  excitement  and  anxiety  to  his 
family.     Victoria  burned  with  ignoble  jealousies,   as  the  bag 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  199 

was  packed,  and  the  socks  and  handkerchiefs  and  clean  shirts 
carefully  counted  and  calculated.  His  salary  was  to  go  on,  and 
he  was  to  keep  a  careful  account  of  his  expenses — nothing  to 
do  but  drink  deep  of  life's  delirious  joy,  in  strange  hotels, 
trains,  new  places! 

The  girl  suddenly  assumed  a  passionate  affection  for  Bertie, 
grew  sober  when  the  last  night  before  his  departure  came, 
kissed  him  good-bye  even  after  his  mother,  with  flashing  tears 
in  her  dark  eyes,  and  mourned  and  was  restless  until  his  first 
thrilling  note  arrived.  It  gave  her  tremendous  pleasure  to 
hear  her  father  tell  her  mother,  in  an  undertone,  that  this  was 
dear  little  Vick's  second  taste  of  the  sorrow  of  life — that  da  Sa 
affair  had  naturally  saddened  the  girl — like  any  kind,  sweet 
girl — and  that  he  admired  the  child  for  her  courage. 

Then  she  went  to  see  Ada  Rehan,  with  Aunt  Fanny,  and 
wrote  Miss  Rehan  a  note,  and  had  a  signed  picture  of  the  great 
actress  in  return,  so  that  midsummer  was  made  thrilling,  and 
Victoria  had  moments  of  feeling  that  she  truly  lived. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  WAS  while  Bertie  was  away  that  an  important  event  oc- 
curred, to  the  great  satisfaction  of  all  concerned.  Old 
Reuben  not  only  altered  his  will  but  consulted  his  sons  and 
daughters  and  son-in-law  duly  as  to  the  disposition  of  his  effects. 

He  had  drowsily  announced  his  intention  of  taking  this 
step,  to  Fanny,  who  lost  no  time  in  quietly  summoning  the 
clan.  They  must  come  over,  as  it  were,  to  a  Sunday  lunch; 
then  Pa  must  have  his  nap,  until  about  five  o'clock.  Then 
would  come  his  brightest  time  when,  rested  and  refreshed, 
with  all  the  excitement  of  greetings  well  over,  he  could  be 
delicately  guided  into  the  family  talk  for  which  they  were  all 
so  anxious. 

To  be  sure,  Fanny,  May,  and  Stephen  felt  that  the  boldness 
of  this  step  might  disguise  dangers.  Of  poor  Harry  and  Lucy, 
down  at  heels  and  meek,  they  indeed  had  no  fear:  Reuben  dis- 
liked Lucy;  but  Bob  was  never  to  be  calculated  upon.  Yet 
the  sisters,  and  eventually  Stephen,  after  much  talk,  decided 
that  it  would  be  infinitely  better  to  face  Bob's  claims,  what- 
ever they  were,  openly,  and  perhaps  by  rational  and  friendly 
comment  to  bring  Pa  to  his  senses  regarding  them,  than  to 
have  the  usurper  undermining  their  prospects  without  ever 
an  opportunity  to  retaliate. 

So  they  gathered  at  Fanny's  on  a  dusty,  blowy  September 
Sunday,  and  Maggie  strained  and  hurried  without  one  in- 
stant's rest,  from  seven  o'clock  to  two,  that  all  might  be  fit- 
tingly prepared  for  them.  May  and  Stephen  came  from  San 
Rafael  at  about  one  o'clock,  Lucy  and  Harry  transferred  from 
the  Mission  on  the  Polk  Street  car,  Robert  and  Fanny  were 
already  on  the  scene.  Lucy  wore  her  hot  old  velvet,  with 
yellowed,  filmy  lace  about  her  strong,  wrinkled  throat;  Fanny 
rustled  in  a  new  striped  gray  and  black  silk;  May  was  matronly 
in  gray  figured  sateen,  with  a  black  braided  and  corded  wrap 
that  hung  down  in  front  in  elegant  tabs. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    201 

Lunch  successfully  concluded,  Carra  engineered  her  old 
charge  upstairs,  and  Fanny,  tiptoeing  down  some  fifteen  minutes 
later,  announced  triumphantly  that  he  was  asleep. 

They  sat  in  the  double  parlours,  whose  white  shades,  with 
deep  edges  of  ecru  embroidery,  had  been  drawn  down  against 
the  afternoon  glare.  The  wind  was  whistling  and  whining, 
and  the  fuchsias  outside  the  window  shook  violently  from  time 
to  time.  Brown  and  yellow  cable  cars,  with  open  seats  front 
and  back,  jangled  and  throbbed  by  in  the  heat;  there  was  a 
strange,  unnatural  silence  out-of-doors,  as  if  the  city  were 
dazed  or  stupefied,  and  the  Crabtree  family,  heavy  with  rich 
food,  uncomfortable  in  best  clothes,  felt  dazed  and  stupefied, 
too. 

Harry,  nervous,  shabby,  eager  for  friendliness,  engaged  Rob 
in  some  discussion  regarding  Chinatown  and  the  Chinese,  leav- 
ing Stephen  free  to  sink  into  light  slumber  in  his  father-in- 
law's  old  leather  chair.  The  ladies  occupied  the  front  room; 
sewing  was  not  for  Sundays  and  their  hands  were  idle.  Fanny 
and  Lucy  sat  on  the  horsehair  sofa,  Lucy  with  a  red  plush  album 
of  family  photographs  in  her  lap.  May  had  the  fringed  patent 
rocker  and  rocked  gently,  her  fingers  clasped,  her  famous  gold 
and  jet  hair  bracelet  showing  upon  a  freckled,  dry,  stout  arm. 

"How  are  all  the  girls,  May?"  Lucy  said. 

"Sweet  and  lovely.  Living  for  their  brother's  letters  just 
now,  of  course.  We've  all  been  surprised  at  the  way  Vicky 
missed  him — they've  always  been  so  devoted!  But  of  course 
his  Mama  feels  that  she  misses  him  most!"  May  smiled  and 
sighed. 

"Little "   Lucy  lowered   her   voice.     "How   is    little — 

what  do  you  call  him — Bobo?"  she  said.  May  quickly  and 
gravely  shook  her  head. 

"The  doctor  says  that  I  simply  must  not  set  my  heart  on 
his  getting  well,"  she  said,  "but  I  say  that  I  would  rather  have 
him  go  now,  than  live  to  be  crippled  or  to  suffer!" 

The  ladies  nodded. 

"He's  a  pathetic  little  soul,"  May  said;  "Vick  is  devoted  to 
him!" 

"What  I  felt  about  to-day  was,"  Fanny  said,  after  an  aimless 
silence  and  in  a  low  tone,  "that  Pa  would  feel  so  much  more — 
that's  Mama's  cousin,  standing  beside  the  swing,  and  that's 
her  husband's  sister,  that  died — I  felt  that  Pa  himself  would 


202  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

feel  so  much  happier,  when  this  business  matter  was  settled. 
Laws!"  said  Fanny  brightly,  "as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  he 
could  do — as  he  will  do,  anything  he  pleases!  But  I  know — 
and  I  was  telling  him  so — isn't  that  ridiculous,  Lucy,  that's 
May  just  before  she  was  married — I  said,  'Pa,  if  it  would  make 
you  feel  more  comfortable  just  to  have  a  talk  about  it,  by  all 
means  do!'" 

"  He  may  not  get  round  to  business,  after  all,"  May  said. 

"Oh,  I  think  he's  asked  Saunders  to  come  in!"  Fanny  an- 
swered quickly. 

This  was  important,  and  made  them  all  look  serious.  Saunders 
was  the  old  family  lawyer,  and  the  mere  mention  of  his  name 
gave  the  family  meeting  a  real  legal  significance. 

"Darling  Pa!"  May  said,  and  sighed  again  with  repletion, 
heat,  and  some  genuine  emotion. 

Lucy  reported  Alice  and  Georgie  as  having  a  wonderful 
time  in  the  country  with  Rudy  and  Nelly.  Nelly's  baby  was 
surely  the  most  exquisite  little  child  that  had  ever  been  born, 
and  this  year  Nelly  had  a  hired  girl  and  much  more  health 
and  leisure.  Alice  was  to  enter  the  hospital,  for  training,  early 
in  September. 

"And  then  we  move,"  said  Lucy  bravely.  Upon  tactful 
questioning  she  admitted  that  she  did  not  know  where,  ex- 
actly. "It's  only  Harry  and  Georgie  and  myself,  now,  and 
surely  we  can  find  some  nice  little  place!"  she  said. 

"Those  flats  that  Ella  was  in  were  very  attractive,"  Fanny 
said,  thinking,  with  a  hard  hand  clasping  her  hard  jaw. 

"I've  no  doubt,  at  forty-five  dollars  a  month!"  Lucy  answered 
lightly. 

"My  dear  Lucy,  you  have  to  pay  big  rents  now!"  Fanny 
answered,  nettled  at  the  slightest  hint  of  opposition. 

"My  dear  Fanny,  nothing  would  be  pleasanter,  if  I  could. 
But  there  isn't  much  that  you  can  tell  me  about  rents!" 

"Gracious — that's  more  than  we  used  to  pay  for  that  im- 
mense house  on  Powell  Street,  where  I  was  married!"  May 
mused. 

"You're  going  to  have  something  of  a  surprise  when  you 
begin  house  hunting,  Lucy,"  Fanny  said,  with  her  sharp  little 
triumphant  laugh.  "/  don't  know  where  you  can  go,  upon 
my  word " 

Lucy  was  usually  a  resolutely  serene  woman   under  petty 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  203 

irritations  of  all  sorts.  But  to-day,  and  for  weeks  before  to- 
day, she  had  been  worried  and  burdened  beyond  her  strength. 
Money,  in  all  her  hard  life,  had  never  been  so  scarce.  She  had 
come  actually  to  hate  the  dingy  quarters  and  half  dollars  that 
went  so  fast,  and  that  were  so  hard  to  gain.  Little  persistent 
bills,  just  the  thirty  cents  to  the  butcher,  the  five  cents  for 
bread,  the  milkman's  wretched  little  memorandum  of  eighty 
cents,  and  two  dollars  for  bill  rendered,  were  eating  out  her 
soul.  Poor  Harry,  quietly  slipping  in  and  out,  always  with  the 
same  story  of  effort  and  failure,  sickened  her  spirit.  She  hated 
to  have  her  lovely  Alice  committed  to  drudgery  in  a  nurse's 
uniform,  she  was  uneasy  about  Nelly,  Rudy  was — or  had  been — 
an  unstable  support.  He  had — once,  at  all  events — frightened 
Nelly  by  returning  to  the  ranch,  one  winter  evening,  hopelessly 
drunk.  Nelly  had  written  her  mother  anxiously  about  it, 
explaining  that  she  knew  men  did  that  occasionally,  and  she 
had  always  known  that  Rudy  liked  it  now  and  then,  but  was 
there  anything  a  wife  could  do?  That  had  been  in  January, 
and  Lucy  had  heard  nothing  more  of  that  sort  of  thing  since, 
Nelly's  springtime  letters  breathing  only  happiness,  lilac- 
blooms,  and  the  baby's  beauty  and  goodness.  Still,  it  was 
always  there,  in  the  background  of  Lucy's  thoughts,  and  she 
had  confided  guardedly  in  Alice,  and  had  asked  Alice  to  bring 
her  a  report. 

To-day,  to  see  Fanny  so  crisp  in  new  silk,  so  self-confident 
and  smug,  with  Maggie  and  Carra  to  keep  her  comfortable,  her 
old  father  further  to  protect  her,  and  above  all,  Aunt  Jenny 
Crabtree's  legacy  to  make  all  life  sure  and  serene,  was  almost 
too  much  for  Lucy's  equanimity. 

"Fortunately  I  don't  have  to  depend  upon  your  decision, 
Fanny,"  she  countered,  sharply,  "rich  people  have  their  own 
ideas  about  these  things,  but  poor  people  can't  waste  much 
time  on  such  pleasant  theories!" 

Fanny  was  furious,  under  a  quick  flush  and  smile.  She  beat 
the  tip  of  her  nose. 

"Indeed,.  I'm  glad  to  know  that  I'm  rich,"  she  said  trem- 
bling. "But — I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  don't  think  you'll  find 
much  theory  in  it." 

"Well,"  Lucy  said,  almost  humming,  as  she  turned  a  page 
carelessly,  "we  shall  seel" 

"Luckily  I  am  not  entirely  a  theorist — poor  me!  when  it 


2o4    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

comes  to  new  suits  of  clothes!"  Fanny  said,  with  a  sort  of 
shaking  self-control,  after  a  pause.  "There's  no  theory  about 
my  putting  my  hand  in  my  pocket  and  paying  seven  dollars 
for  Georgie's  school  suit — oh,  no!  There's  no  talk  of  theories 
then!" 

"Georgie's  suit,"  Lucy  said  firmly,  after  a  terrible  pause, 
and  still  looking  blindly  at  the  old  photographs,  "I  will  send 
back  to  you  to-night.  That'll  end  that.  If  he  has  to  go  to 
school  in " 

"Ah,  girls — girls!"  May  intervened  nervously.  "Fanny 
didn't  mean  that,  did  you,  Fanny?  You  mustn't  take  her  up 
so,  Lucy " 

"  Perhaps  I  meant  that  I  didn't  intend  to  be  insulted  in  my 
own  house!"  Fanny  said,  her  breast  heaving. 

"Insulted!     Why,  Fanny  dear,  Lucy  never  dreamed !" 

May  said  in  a  panic.  "And  here  we  all  are  having  such  a 
lovely  family  Sunday,  all  together!  I'm  sure  it  was  lovely  of 
you  to  give  Georgie  the  little  suit,  and  I  know  Lucy's  been 
having  a  rather  upset  time " 

"My  God,  I'd  give  the  child  every  stitch  he  ever  put  on!" 
Fanny  said,  violently,  snatching  out  her  handkerchief  to  wipe 
the  moistened  tip  of  her  nose.  "But  to  have  it  thrown  up 
at  me " 

"I  threw  nothing  up  at  any  one,"  Lucy  said,  with  steely 
calm,  looking  up  for  the  first  time  and  meeting  Fanny's  glance 
firmly.  "If  you  chose  to  make  your  brother's  son  a  present,  it 
seems  to  me  you  have  a  right.  Perhaps  I'm  wrong.  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  say,  'No,  Fanny,  don't  give  it  to  him!  No.  Geor- 
gie, give  it  back!'  Well,  if  I  am,  I'm  sorry,"  Lucy  continued, 
in  a  stern,  proud  voice.  "I'm  sorry!  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  turn 
him  against  his  aunt,  and  say,  'No,  Georgie.      Papa  is  having  a 

hard  time,  Mama  is  worrying  and  working  early  and  late! *." 

Lucy's  voice  broke,  but  she  controlled  it  and  went  on  with  the 
imaginary  address  to  George.  "'But  you  must  refuse  Aunt 
Fanny's  gift,  dear.  You  love  her — you  always  like  to  go  visit 
her '" 

"I  thank  God  he  does  love  me!"  sobbed  Fanny,  deeply 
moved,  and  suddenly  pressing  her  red  fingers  and  her  white 
handkerchief  against  her  face.  "I  know  he  loves  me!  And 
I  would  stuff  the  new  suit  in  the  fire — burn  it  up — a  thousand 
new  suits !" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  205 

The  object  of  these  heroic  measures  was  not  perhaps  clear, 
but  Fanny's  breakdown  preceded  that  of  Lucy  by  only  a  few 
seconds,  and  May's  faded  eyes  watered  as  she  patted  first  one 
of  her  companions  and  then  the  other  comfortingly  on  the 
shoulder.  Presently  they  were  all  laughing  shakily,  noses  and 
eyes  were  dried,  handkerchiefs  put  away,  and  peace — and 
more  than  peace,  returned. 

"Lucy,  I  was  wrong,"  Fanny  said,  in  the  luxury  of  self- 
abasement;  "I'm  hot-tempered,  I  know  it!" 

"My  gracious,  Fanny,"  Lucy  returned,  with  equal  gener- 
osity, "I  realize  that  I'm  as  nervous  as  a  witch,  these  days! 
It's  a  beautiful  little  suit " 

"Well,  it  wasn't  much.  But  then,  you  know — for  school " 

"Who's  this,  May?     Is  that  Louisianna?" 

"Oh,  no — no!"  May  bent  over  the  picture  of  a  plump  in- 
fant holding  a  hoople  and  stick.  "No,  that's  Esme,"  she  said, 
sentimentally  interested  at  once,  "wasn't  she  the  dear  little 
fatty?  Look  at  the  bare  shoulders,  Lucy,  and  the  dear  little 
scalloped  dress.  I  remember  that  dress — Ma  made  it!  It 
was  a  sort  of  browny-gray,  with  braid — black  braid  and  pearl 
buttons.  I  used  to  wet  her  hair  and  make  those  little  curls  on 
a  stick !" 

It  was  almost  four  o'clock  when  the  old  man  tottered  down- 
stairs again.  His  family  received  him  with  fluttered  attention, 
everyone  getting  up  and  moving  about  eagerly  until  he  was 
settled.     May  kissed  the  dry,  warm  old  forehead. 

"Lovely  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Pa!"  she  said,  enthusi- 
astically. 

"Yes,  I'm  well— I'm  well,  May!"  Reuben  Crabtree  said, 
in  his  high  cackle,  as  he  sank  into  a  chair  and  she  settled  her- 
self at  once  beside  him,  "but  I  don't  get  much  sleep!"  he 
added,  pathetically  and  anxiously,  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"You  don't  sleep  well!"  May  said,  in  a  tone  rich  with  pity 
and  concern. 

"I — wake!"  Reuben  added,  piteously.  Tears  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  patted  her  hand,  gulping  and  shaking  his  head. 
"Gettin'  to  be  old!"  he  faltered. 

"We  all  must  do  that,"  May  was  beginning  tenderly,  when 
her  brother  interrupted  her. 

"You  are  not!"  Rob  interposed,  with  his  easy  confidence. 


2o6    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Tell  that  to  Joe  Potter  the  next  time  he  wants  you  to  sell 
your  Filmore  Street  lot!" 

Old  Reuben's  face  brightened  and  he  chuckled,  washed  his 
bloodless  old  hands,  and  laughed  heartily. 

"He'll  never  git  that  fifty  vara  lot  for  fourteen  hundred!"  he 
announced  triumphantly,  bringing  his  jaw  up  with  a  convulsive 
snap. 

"He  knows  it!"  Rob  said,  sitting  down  on  his  father's  other 
side  and  giving  him  a  respectful  yet  comradely  glance.     "Why, 

that  fellow  just  thought  he  could  fool  you "     May,  who 

had  been  quite  ready  to  melt  into  daughterly  tears,  looked  a 
trifle  foolish,  and,  swallowing  hard,  tossed  her  head  in  scorn 
for  Robert's  ubiquity.  Fanny,  sniffing  sharply,  seated  herself 
with  some  stiff"  silken  rustling,  and  Harry  placed  himself  next 
to  his  wife  on  the  sofa.  Stephen  supplied,  as  it  were,  the  key- 
stone of  the  half-circle,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  expectant 
silence. 

"Now,  if  you  don't  feel  like  talking,  Pa  dear,  just  you  don't!" 
May  said,  all  warm  reassurance.  "We  don't  want  you  to 
feel " 

"May."  Stephen  merely  pronounced  her  name.  May  was 
silent. 

"As  I  understand  it,"  Stephen  said,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"we  were  going  to  have  a  little  talk  to-day  about  business — 
what  your  plans  are  for  the  business,"  he  glanced  at  old  Reuben, 
"and  what  we  can  all  do  to  relieve  your  mind  about  the  dis- 
position of — well,  what  is  it?"  Stephen  interrupted  himself 
smilingly.  "Property — bonds — I  don't  know!  All  I  know 
about  is  the  firm!" 

"I  want  to  satisfy  ye  all!"  Reuben  said,  in  tears,  to  May. 

"Papa  dear — as  if  you  didn't — always!" 

"I'm  seventy-seven,  Nelly!"  said  Reuben  to  Lucy.  He  often 
confused  her  name  with  that  of  her  daughter. 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  live  to  be  ninety-seven!"  Lucy  said, 
hearteningly. 

"Now,  about  the  business,"  Rob  said.  "Suppose  we  settle 
that,  Pa,  and  then  you'll  feel  happier.  The  stock  of  Crabtree 
and  Company — and  by  the  way,  Fenderson  and  Yeasley  have 
some  stock,  haven't  they?" 

"And  Crane,  too,  Robbit,  and  of  course  Fan  here  has  what 
her  aunt  put  in  years  ago,"  the  old  man  said,  suddenly  alert. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  207 

Well,  that  makes- 


"Six  stockholders,"  Stephen  said.  "You  and  Harry  sold 
out,"  he  added  addressing  his  brother-in-law. 

"I  want  May  and  Fanny  to  have  the  business,  Rob,"  old 
Reuben  said  pleadingly.  May's  heart  gave  a  great  plunge  of 
joy,  and  she  smiled  gratefully  upon  her  father.  Stephen  con- 
trolled the  muscles  of  his  face,  and  looked  gravely  interested;  he 
could  only  suppose  this  to  be  a  painful  surprise  to  Rob,  but 
the  oldest  son  gave  no  sign.  Fanny  wiped  her  nose  with  a 
sniff.  "Yes,  yes,  I'll  leave  my  girls  p'vided  for,"  Reuben  pur- 
sued sentimentally.  "And  you'll  watch  their  interests,  Steve. 
You'll  be  president  then,  and  it'll  be  your  responsibility,  unless 
Robbit  decides  to  join  you." 

"That  would  be  entirely  for  Rob  to  decide,"  Stephen  said 
offhandedly  and  generously.  He  could  afford  to  grant  Rob 
this  shadowy  satisfaction  in  the  overwhelming  gratification  of 
the  moment. 

"Don't  speculate  with  your  aunt's  money,  Fanny!"  said  her 
father,  suddenly. 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake!"  Fanny  said,  with  an  intelligent  laugh 
and  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"I've  left  ye  the  Santa  Clara  piece,  Harry,"  the  old  man 
said.  "It's  rented  for  another  three  years,  but  it  never  paid  me! 
Maybe  you  and  your  wife  can  git  something  out  of  it." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Pa!"  Harry  said,  in  genuine  surprise  and 
satisfaction.  "I — I  didn't  know  you  meant  to  do  that!  I  knew 
I'd  gotten  my  share  years  ago!  I  thought  that  old  place  was 
sold!" 

"I  sold  it,  but  he  didn't  make  his  payments,  and  I  got  it 
back  again,"  Reuben  said,  chuckling.  Lucy's  fine  eyes  gleamed 
with  satisfaction. 

"That  would  always  be  a  home  for  us,"  she  said  thankfully. 
But  Harry  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  there's  a  house  on  it,"  he  said,  "I  think  the 
house  burned  down.  There's  a  barn,  and  sheds — it's  an  awfully 
bare,  hot  piece  of  country,  you  know,  as  flat  as  a  table." 

"There'll  be  enough  cash  beside  to  build  ye  a  house,"  Reuben 
said.  "Had  to  leave  your  boy  something,  Harry!  Well — 
did  ye  make  notes  of  all  this  Rob?"  he  said,  turning  to  his  son. 
"I  think  that's  all!  Oh,  yes,  I  said  somethin'  about  leavin' 
the  San  Rafael  house  to  little  Rube,  May." 


208    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"To  Bobo!"  May  said,  still  so  wrapped  in  the  enchanting 
knowledge  that  Robert's  machinations  were  not  to  gain  him  a 
place  in  the  firm,  after  all,  that  every  other  consideration  was 
secondary. 

"Well,  we  might  have  to  live  in  the  city  anyway,"  Stephen 
said,  in  a  quick  aside,  "but  Fm  sure  the  little  fellow  will  always 
have  a  place  in  our  home,  and  may  it  be  a  long  time" —  he 
turned  smilingly  to  his  father-in-law — "before  he  inherits  his!" 

"Ah,  we  all  feel  that!"  said  May. 

"And  we  believe  that!"  Fanny  added,  lovingly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  Pa  the  injustice  to  think  that  he 
has  cut  me  off,"  Robert  said,  quietly,  over  the  pencilled  notes 
he  was  studying.  "He  is  giving  me  the  Filmore  Street  property, 
and  the  bonds  he  has  in  the  safe,  and  there  are  a  certain  number 
of  bonds  to  be  divided  among  the  grandchildren." 

"Just  what  are  those  bonds?"  Stephen  asked  in  a  low  tone, 
as  the  women  began  an  affectionate  exchange  of  thanks  and 
congratulations  about  the  old  man.  He  had  burned  for  many 
years  to  ask  the  question. 

"I  don't  know!"  Robert  answered,  with  a  glance  up  from  his 
memoranda.  "He  merely — he  spoke  to  me  about  this  a  week 
ago — you  know! — he  merely  said  that  he  would  rather  arrange  it 
that  way,  since  you  were  accustomed  to  the  responsibility " 

"Well,  that's  true  enough!"  Stephen  said,  wondering  what 
Rob  really  felt.  He  was  divided  between  two  natural  fears: 
that  Rob  was  receiving  so  little  that  he  wTould  some  day  dispute 
the  will,  and  that  Rob  was  receiving  an  undue  proportion  of 
the  old  man's  estate.  "Your  father's  been  tucking  them  away 
for  years,  now,"  he  said,  speculatively.  "But  that  San  Rafael 
property  is  worth  a  good  deal,  Bob,"  he  added,  as  his  brother- 
in-law,  looking  pleasantly  interested,  said  nothing,  "even  if  you 
outlive  the  baby — which  there's  no  reason  to  feel,  but  if  you 
should!     You'll  inherit  from  your  son." 

"No,  Pa  made  a  note  of  that!"  Rob  said  quickly.  "That 
reverts  to  May,  unless  little  Reuben  reaches  his  majority. 
She's  his  trustee." 

"My  girls  are  very  fond  of  him,"  Stephen  said,  with  one 
more  gnawing  fear  laid  to  rest. 

"He's  a  nice  little  monkey,"  said  Bobo's  father,  with  a  sigh. 
"I  ran  over  to  see  him  yesterday.  But  he's  poorly,  Steve. 
By  George,  I  could  put  my  thumb  and  first  finger  right  round 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    209 

his  little  arm — I  did  it!     I  suppose  he's  all  right,  but  I  wish  to 
the  Lord  he'd  fatten  a  little!" 

"He  may,"  Stephen  said,  judicially.  Fatherhood  to  him 
had  come  as  a  natural  dignity,  like  his  beard  and  his  vice-presi- 
dency. He  thought  now  for  the  first  time  that  it  would  go  hard 
with  any  man  to  lose  his  only  child,  and  a  faint  pity  for  Bob 
stirred  him — Bob  who  had  no  wife,  no  home,  no  real  hold  upon 
Crabtree  and  Company,  and  perhaps  no  son. 

The  conversation  immediately  became  general,  almost  jocose. 
Everyone  was  pleased  with  the  open  frankness  with  which  the 
vexed  speculations  of  years  had  been  settled.  Fanny,  who  had 
mentally  inherited  the  Filmore  Street  property,  sandy  lots  in  an 
almost  uninhabited  region,  and  who  had  mentally  dipped  into 
her  precious  capital  for  taxes  and  street  improvements  thereon, 
breathed  the  freer  for  knowing  that  her  legacy  was  safe  in  the 
sacred  fastnesses  of  the  firm,  and  would  take  the  form  of  just  one 
comfortable  dividend  to  deposit  after  another.  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  when  her  capital 
reached  a  certain  even  sum.  It  was  now  just  a  little  short  of 
this  sum:  she  saw  herself  evening  it.  If  there  should  be  six 
thousand  more,  say — well,  this  house  she  was  in  was  valued  at 
eight  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  and  Fanny 
wanted  to  buy  it.  Under  cover  of  the  droning  family  conversa- 
tion in  the  stuffy  parlours,  Fanny  had  time  to  move  her  mental 
limit;  the  certain  sum,  and  ten  thousand  over — she  would 
never  wish  for  more.  The  extra  money  was  for  papering,  paint- 
ing, a  gas-stove,  a  handsome  iron  fence  instead  of  the  fat  low 
wooden  railings  in  front  of  the  house,  and  a  hundred  dollars — 
or  fifty  at  least,  for  the  Ladies'  Guild. 

May,  to  whom  Stephen  found  immediate  opportunity  to 
whisper  the  fact  of  her  trusteeship  and  the  reversion  of  the  home 
property,  shared  her  husband's  gratification.  Dear  little  Bobo 
— she  hoped  he  would  live  to  turn  them  all  out  some  day,  twenty 
years  from  now!  It  was  of  course  the  most  fortunate  thing  in 
the  world  that  he  was  actually  with  her,  and  that  it  would  be 
natural  for  his  father  to  leave  him  there.  She  had  long  felt 
herself  the  real  owner  of  the  country  home,  but  it  was  pleasant 
to  experience  the  first  true  thrill  of  possession.  May,  murmur- 
ing banalities,  as  the  sun,  dropping  in  the  west,  sent  blazing 
rays  against  the  windows  and  the  crying  and  talking  of  the  hot 


2io    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

summer  wind  died  away,  had  all  the  satisfaction  due  to  the 
most  important  female  figure  in  this  important  group,  wife  of  the 
president  presumptive  of  Crabtree  and  Company,  and  probable 
mistress  forever  of  the  beloved  gardens  and  porches,  the  big 
high-ceiled  rooms  and  the  odorous  dark  halls  of  the  San  Rafael 
home. 

As  for  Harry  and  Lucy,  their  position  was  truly  too  desperate 
to  be  affected  by  what  might  happen  at  Pa's  death.  What  they 
needed  was  money  now,  for  dinner  to-night,  for  rent  on  the  first 
of  the  month.  They  had  been  unfortunate,  they  had  invested 
unwisely.  "Hetty  Green  might  do  that,"  Lucy  said.  Some 
books,  perhaps,  some  silver  spoons  to  be  divided  between 
Georgie  and  Alice,  and  some  of  Ma's  old  yellowed  linen,  if  any 
of  it  survived  Fanny's  dynasty — that  was  all  that  might 
naturally  fall  to  the  youngest  son.  Lucy,  always  imaginative, 
had  indeed  deluded  herself  for  some  years  with  the  fond  hope 
that  Georgie,  the  only  male  Crabtree,  might  be  specially  re- 
membered by  his  old  grandfather.  But  now  there  was  Bobo, 
who  had  stepped  neatly  into  the  place  of  the  oldest  son's  oldest 
son,  and  who  had  the  name,  too,  Reuben  Elliot  Crabtree.  Lucy 
had  often  wondered  of  late  why  she  had  not  given  Georgie  this 
name,  and  called  him  "Elliot."  Elliot  was  a  beautiful  name. 
But  somehow,  when  Georgie  was  born,  she  had  been  able  to 
remember  only  an  attractive  Englishwoman  on  the  steamer, 
whose  appeals  to  her  handsome  blond  son  as  "Georgie  love" 
had  impressed  Lucy  as  most  admirable.  Anyway,  reflected 
Lucy,  all  this  fashion  of  family  names  and  juniors  had  not 
reached  California  fourteen  years  ago,  when  Georgie  was  a  baby. 
Ella  had  really  introduced  it  to  the  family,  and  with  it  other 
aristocratic  notions — of  silver,  and  portraits,  and  china.  Ella 
had  seemed  to  unite  these  pioneer  Crabtrees  with  other  Crab- 
trees,  judges  and  congressmen  and  writers,  genealogy  had  mat- 
tered vitally  to  Ella,  and  she  had  made  it  seem  important  to 
them  all. 

To  both  herself  and  Harry,  listening  apathetically,  heavy  with 
the  first  full  meal  they  had  had  for  a  long  time,  it  was  therefore 
sufficiently  satisfying  to  know  that  the  Santa  Clara  lot,  and 
the  vague  "cash — something  to  build  ye  a  house — something 
for  Harry's  boy  "  besides,  were  to  come  to  them.  To  be  sure, 
Santa  Clara  was  a  hot,  remote  region,  in  those  days,  given  over 
to  fruit  growers  and  baked,  six  months  a  year,  by  merciless  heat. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  211 

But  it  was  something  more  than  beggary — something  more 

than  starvation,  and  beggary  and  starvation  had  looked  Lucy 

and  Harry  steadily  in  the  eyes  for  weeks  and  weeks  now.     Pa 

was  only  seventy-seven,  after  all,  he  might  live  for  a  long  time, 

but  he  could  not  live  forever,  and  there  was  this  certainty  of 

something — something  when  he  died.     Lucy  was   comfortably 

drowsy  with  food  and  heat  and  idleness,  her  skin  felt  tight  and 

!  hot;  she  was  overcome  with  repressed  yawns  and  sleepy  blink- 

I  ing.     She  imagined  herself  borrowing  the  fare  to  Santa  Clara 

from  Fanny,  packing  for  the  move,  finding  a  surprisingly  decent 

house  on  the  place,  with  a  few  great  trees  over  it,  settling  down 

I  to  thrift,   production,   prosperity.     Her  ever-active    thoughts 

I  had  taken  a  new  turn,  and  she  was  refreshed  by  it. 

What  Rob  thought  nobody  knew — nobody  ever  did  know. 
They  all  might  feel  grateful  to  him  for  engineering  this  most 
satisfactory  consultation,  yet  it  was  not  natural  to  suppose  Rob 
totally  disinterested.  He  was  taking  the  attitude  now  that 
this  settlement  of  the  family  affairs  was  a  mere  casual  detail  in 
his  enormous  schemes — ease  up  Pa  by  all  means,  let  the  old  man 
talk  it  over — it  wasn't  much  of  an  inheritance,  but  it  was  just  as 
well  to  have  it  straight! 

Rob  presently  met  the  family  solicitor,  Saunders,  at  the  front 
door,  and  carried  him  off  to  the  dining  room.  Stephen,  who 
had  satisfied  himself  long  ago  that  Saunders  would  protect  the 
Brewers'  interest,  now  said  to  May  that  they  must  go,  and  with 
many  kisses  and  fond  warnings  they  were  gone,  to  catch  the 
boat  at  quarter  past  five. 

"It  does  seem  to  me  to  be  so  wonderful,  dear,"  May  said,  in 
great  felicity,  on  the  boat,  "I  can't  help  believe  but  what  it's 
my  determination  not  to  have  differences  among  us  all — I 
can't  help  believe  that  that  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it!  Fanny 
is  a  dear,  of  course,  but  she's  always  been  odd,  and  Rob  and 
Harry  don't  count.  But  I  have" —  May's  tone  became 
pathetic — "I  have  tried  to  be  a  good  daughter  and  wife  and 
sister,"  she  continued,  "raising  my  little  family,  praying  for  us 
all,  gathering  them  together  whenever  I  could — of  course  I 
don't  mean  now,  for  Pa's  not  really  well  enough  to  cross  the 
;  bay  now — but  I  have  tried  to  fill  my  place — unworthily,  I  know, 
but  yet,  to  have  Pa  show  me,  and  show  you,  such  confidence — 
you  see  you'll  have  Fanny's  share,  too,  to  manage — it  makes — " 
her  eyes  watered — "it  makes  me  feel  that  the  sacrifices  and  the 


212  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

efforts  that  are — well,  just  second  nature  to  me  now,  are  really- 
worth  while.  Lucy  asked  me,  years  ago — or  was  it  poor  Ella  ? — 
I  forget  which — why  I  was  so  constantly  thinking  of  other  peo- 
ple. Well,  I  laughed.  I  said  it  was  easier  for  me  than  anything 
else — always  has  been.  Ma  used  to  say  that.  He's  gone  to 
sleep,"  said  May,  half-aloud,  as  she  glanced  affectionately  at 
Stephen,  who  was  indeed  in  a  heavy  slumber,  and  even  snoring. 
She  settled  her  shoulder  for  his  comfort,  stared  at  the  glaring 
light  of  late  afternoon  against  the  Gate,  blinked  and  yawned 
herself  as  the  little  coppery  waves  dazzled  in  her  eyes. 

When  he  stumbled  beside  her  to  the  train  she  came  out  of  a 
reverie  to  ask  him  when  he  thought  Pa  would  sign  that  new 
will. 

"  Saunders  said  he'd  bring  it  in  Wednesday  morning,"  Stephen 
said,  with  a  rending  yawn  that  was  like  a  silent  shriek. 

"I  was  thinking — wouldn't  it  be  awful,  Steve,  if  Pa  should 
die  to-night.  At  his  age — what  with  the  effort  and  excitement 
and  all " 

Stephen  looked  out  at  Saucelito,  lovely  terraced  garden  above 
garden,  in  clear  shadow,  and  yawned  again.  He  was  immedi- 
ately asleep  again,  but  May  worried  all  the  way  home. 

They  walked  through  quiet  autumn  roads  to  the  old  gate, 
May  vaguely  satisfied  as  she  raised  her  long  skirts  from  the 
touch  of  dusty  thistles  and  self-sown  masses  of  marguerites  be- 
side the  path.  It  would  be  good  to  get  back  to  the  dear  girls, 
good  to  get  into  loose  old  corsets  and  a  scalloped  calico  sacque 
that  she  visualized  as  clean  and  stiff,  in  her  middle  bureau 
drawer. 

"I  suppose  we'll  have  to  offer  Yeasley  the  vice-presidency," 
Stephen  reflected  aloud.     "But  Crane's  my  own  choice!" 

May  glanced  at  him  alertly,  answered  with  quiet  readiness. 

"Crane's  been  in  the  business  longer  than  Yeasley,  Steve, 
if  he  is  younger!" 

"By  George,  that's  so,"  her  husband  responded  slowly,  struck. 

."Oh,  I'm  positive  of  that!"  May  said  eagerly.  "Why,  I 
remember  Hutton  Crane  coming  to  see  us  on  Powell  Street!" 

"Sometimes,"  Stephen  said,  in  deep  relief,  "you  have  a  mind 
like  a  man's,  my  dear!"  and  this  remark  caused  May  almost  un- 
bearable happiness.  They  had  reached  the  gate  now,  and  saw 
all  the  girls  on  the  lawn,  with  Vernon  Yelland  laughing  among 
them,  flushed  and  heated  in  his  heavy  clerical  black,  and  Bob's 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  213 

poor  little  baby  staggering  about  in  the  new  dress  Esme  had 
made  him,  of  brown  holland  with  diagonal  line  of  big  buttons 
fastening  it  from  his  little  left  shoulder  to  his  pipe-stem  of  a 
little  right  knee. 

Stephen  and  May  had  only  time  to  decide  that  the  girls  must 
know  nothing  of  this  day's  events.  It  might  be  well  to  tell 
Bertie,  but  was  wiser  not  to  upset  the  girls. 

Fanny,  buoyantly  satisfied  as  to  the  outcome  of  Pa's  talk  with 
the  family,  and  seeing  herself  as  only  increasingly  rich  and  com- 
fortable down  the  vista  of  the  years,  now  found  herself  more  and 
more  seriously  concerned  for  his  spiritual  state.  As  soon  as — 
as  soon  as  "anything  happened,"  her  path  was  clear.  Simple 
but  handsome  mourning,  an  affectionate  farewell  to  Carra,  with 
perhaps  some  coloured  gowns  and  a  gold-piece  as  parting  gifts  to 
the  old  mulatto,  the  immediate  purchase  of  the  house,  and  a 
long,  serious  talk  with  Maggie,  were  among  the  first  gratifying 
details  she  foresaw.  Then  some  day  she  would  go  down  to 
Crabtree  and  Company's  office,  inspect  it  floor  by  floor,  and 
gain  from  Stephen  a  thorough  knowledge  of  exactly  what  her 
own  interest  there  was. 

These  things  settled,  there  was  no  stumbling  block  in  the 
way  of  well-dressed,  independent,  comfortable  years,  ruling 
Maggie,  planning  little  treats  for  the  girls,  coming  and  going 
in  a  sheltered  environment  of  admiration  and  envy.  Some  day 
she  might  take  Esme — or  Vicky — abroad,  both  perhaps.  No, 
it  would  be  better  to  have  only  one.  What  a  flutter  there  would 
be  among  them  when  Aunt  Fanny's  glorious  offer  was  first 
suggested! 

Meanwhile  it  was  shocking  to  think  of  her  father's  utterly 
godless  condition.  He  never  read  the  Bible,  he  never  prayed,  he 
never  went  to  church.  He  had  done  all  these  things  years  ago, 
in  Ma's  day,  as  Fanny  clearly  remembered;  perhaps  he  had  done 
them  somewhat  lifelessly,  but  faith,  she  told  herself,  had  been 
there.  She  determined  to  reawaken  it,  and  for  several  weeks 
she  read  the  Evangelists  somewhat  ostentatiously,  and  drew  the 
conversation  to  holy  things  whenever  it  was  possible. 

Rob  was  a  stumbling  block;  his  laughing  atheism  was  horrible 
to  Fanny,  and  angered  as  well  as  shocked  her.  She  could  not 
keep  her  temper  when  Rob  was  in  the  room,  if  the  question  of 
religion  arose. 


2i4    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 


"Plenty  of  people  think  what  I  think,  Fan,"  he  would  remind 
her.     "The  ministers  are  in  it  for  what  they  can  get  out  of 

it!" 

"Get  out  of  it!     Do  you  suppose  a  man  like  Phillips  Brooks 

— one  of  the  greatest  scholars  alive  to-day — wouldn't  have  made 

much,  much  more  money  in  the  world?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  They  have  it  pretty  comfortable,  with 
a  lot  of  women  running  to  them  with  their  secrets!  They 
couldn't  hold  their  own  long  on  the  Board  of  Trade." 

"They're  looking  out  for  God's  people — that's  what  they're 
doing!     They're  saving  souls — laying  away  treasure " 

"Laying  away  real  estate!  The  church  is  rich,  all  the 
churches  are  rich,  whereas  Jesus  Christ — not  that  they  care 
much  about  His  ideas !" 

"Rob,  I  cannot  and  will  not  have  you  talk  so  about — reli- 
gion!"    Fanny  always  became  passionate. 

"You  two  can't  agree  because  one  of  you's  a  woman  and 
t'other's  a  man,"  Reuben  might  offer,  with  his  old  chuckle. 
"Leave  the  church  to  the  wimmen,  Robbit.  The  churches 
wouldn't  git  far  without  'em!  Ministers  have  always  hed'em 
fooled  and  always  will!" 

"Pa,  it's  wicked  for  you  to  talk  as  if  religion  was  a  matter 
entirely  for  ladies;  you  simply  encourage  Bob  to  display  his 
ignorance  and  his — his  coarseness!  Prayer  and  salvation  are 
for  all — and  I'm  sure  I  never  go  into  church  without  a  sense  of 
unworthiness  that  I — poor,  wretched,  unworthy  me — should  be 
saved!"  Fanny's  tears  were  always  ready;  from  Bob's  amused 
witness  of  them  she  usually  withdrew  in  helpless  fury. 

The  hour  came,  however,  when  old  Reuben  acquired  a  heavy 
cold,  and  the  doctor's  opinion  was  that  the  end  could  not  now  be 
long  delayed.  The  doctor  said  that  at  Mr.  Crabtree's  age  any 
heavy  bronchial  cold  might  run  into  pneumonia,  and  Fanny,  in 
her  agitated  note  to  May,  via  Stephen,  mentioned  pneumonia  as 
a  settled  fact.  Stephen  used  the  new  telephone  to  his  house, 
arid  May  and  Bertie  started  for  the  California  Street  house  with- 
out a  moment's  delay. 

Bertie  had  been  at  home  with  a  cold,  too,  and  upon  the 
agitating  arrival  of  the  summons,  Vicky's  heart  had  leaped  with 
hope.  Mama  would  take  her,  of  course,  and  she  would  share 
the  thrilling  hours  at  Grandpa's  house,  perhaps  comfort  and 
sustain  them  all  if  darling  Grandpa  died.     But  Bertie  had  most 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    215 

provokingly  announced  himself  as  ready  to  get  up,  and  Mama, 
remarking  tearfully  that  a  man  was  really  much  more  needed, 
had  tremulously  bespoken  the  support  of  her  dear  boy's  arm  for 
the  trying  trip.  So  the  girls  could  only  console  themselves  with 
awed  speculations  and  settle  down  to  a  dark  winter  evening  of 
wind  and  storm  with  the  reflection  that  life  was  full  of  sorrow 
and  change. 

It  was  just  after  Christmas   and   bitterly  cold.     The   bay 
looked  bleak  and  steely,  wind  rattled  at  the  windows  of  the  boat, 
and  howled  across  the  ferry  place.     Fanny's  nose  was  wet  and 
cold  as  she  kissed  her  sister,  in  the  cold  hallway.     He  was 
1  asleep,  she  whispered;  he  looked  terrible!     He  had  been  quite 
!  well  on  Tuesday,  but  on  Wednesday  morning  he  hadn't  gotten 
;  up,  and  Carra  had  made  him  tea.     But  then  he  had  come  down- 
stairs at  about  one — that  was  Wednesday,  yes.     Fanny  had 
been  going  to  the  Guild  Hall,  but  she  had  put  it  off,  but  Pa  ate 
some  supper,  and  even  played  solitaire — that  was  Wednesday. 
But  Thursday — this  was  Friday,  yes.     Yesterday,  then,  he  had 
complained  of  his  chest,  and  she  had  felt  terribly  worried  then. 
But  Doctor  de  Zecchi  had  said  it  was  only  a  cold,  and  he  had  had 

hot  milk  and  had  talked  about  dear  Ma 

Fanny  collapsed  into  tears,  and  May  cried,"too.  Bertie  found 
this  crisis,  which  would  have  been  so  richly  and  dramatically 
satisfying  to  Victoria,  profoundly  boring.  He  yawned  over 
Harper  s  Magazine,  in  the  dining  room.  Later  his  mother 
went  up  to  freshen  her  red  eyes  and  creep  into  the  sickroom, 
and  Bertie  spent  that  night  upon  the  back  parlour  lounge. 

His  grandfather  was  surprisingly  better  the  next  day,  and  on 
Sunday  his  mother  returned  home,  leaving  her  father  playing 
solitaire  in  bed,  Fanny  somewhat  cross  in  a  natural  revulsion 
of  feeling  after  the  strain,  and  old  Carra  moving  like  a  shadow 
across  the  background  of  the  strangely  silent,  strangely  echoing 
musty  rooms.  The  fresh  cold  country  air  felt  delicious  to  May's 
jaded  forehead,  and  to  find  her  girls  changing  wet,  muddy  gar- 
ments after  a  walk,  and  resolved  upon  chocolate  for  supper, 
seemed  soothing  and  right. 

Fanny  took  this  scare  for  a  warning,  and  during  this  very 
evening,  when  her  father  asked  her  to  read  to  him,  plunged 
bravely  into  Revelation.     Old  Reuben  listened  with  a  thought- 
ful face,  and  Fanny's  heart  beat  high  as  she  went  from  line  to 
I  line,  hearing  herself  tell  May  that  Pa  had  softened  at  last. 


216    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Beautiful — beautiful!"  said  the  sick  man  suddenly.  Fanny 
looked  up  with  passionate  eagerness. 

"Isn't  it,  Pa?  Doesn't  it  just  seem  written  for  our  times  of 
weakness  and  need?" 

"Your  grandmother — your  mother — Lulu,  I  mean,"  he  said, 
irritated  because  he  could  not  quite  remember  the  relationships, 
"always  was  a  great  believer  in  the  Word,  Fanny." 

"Oh,  I  know  it,  Pa!"  Fanny  felt  that  her  heart  was  gushing 
a  stream  of  hope  and  happiness. 

"Don't  ever  let  Bob  laugh  you  out  of  your  prayers,  Fanny," 
the  cracked  old  voice  said,  with  emotion.  Her  father's  face  was 
back  against  the  pillows;  he  now  dropped  his  leaden  lids  over  his 
eyes,  and  she  saw  a  difficult  tear  or  two  slip  down.  Terror  that 
this  was  the  moment  of  passing  shook  her,  and  she  fell  on  her 
knees  beside  him.     "Say  your  prayers,  Fanny!"  he  sobbed. 

"Oh,  Pa,  I  will!"  Fanny  said,  crying  heartily,  "and  you  will, 
too,  promise  me,  Pa!     For  Ma's  sake !" 

"Yes,  Fanny,  she  was  always  telling  me  to  turn  to  the  Lord!" 
and  old  Reuben  cried  again  as  he  feebly  patted  her  head.  "I've 
done  bad  things,  Fanny,"  he  said  anxiously,  "but  nothing  your 
mother  won't  forgive  me!  Ask — ask  your  Dr.  Jerome  to  come 
and  see  a  sick  old  man — a  failing,  tired  old  man — to-morrow! 
Unless  ye  become  as  little  children " 

He  drifted  off  to  sleep  with  Fanny  holding  his  hand.  But 
when  she  crept  away  it  was  to  pin  on  her  bonnet  with  trembling 
hands  and  run  out  herself  to  tell  her  pastor  of  the  miracle.  It 
was  Sunday  night;  as  Fanny  hurried  along  Franklin  Street 
women  were  moving  about  her  through  the  wintry  cold  and  dark, 
on  their  way  to  church;  she  smelt  the  Christmas  evergreens  as 
she  went  in,  and  heard  the  Christmas  music  again,  and  she  told 
herself  that  Pa  might  keep  his  New  Year  in  heaven. 

Reverend  Dr.  Jerome,  a  fine,  gray,  well-built  man,  was  robed 
for  the  service,  but  his  sympathy  was  as  ready  as  if  Fanny  had 
come  at  the  most  opportune  time  imaginable.  He  promised  the 
excited  caller  that  he  would  be  at  her  house  a  little  after  ten,  and 
Fanny  dried  her  tears  and  fled  home  again.  The  doctor  had 
come  and  gone;  Pa  had  had  his  milk  and  was  asleep,  and  Rob 
was  before  the  back  parlour  fire.  Fanny  could  triumphantly 
tell  her  brother  the  good  news. 

Bob  took  the  surprising  conversation  rather  quietly,  with  the 
remark  that  he  was  glad  if  it  pleased  her. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  217 

"Please  me!"  Fanny  echoed,  beginning  to  get  her  breath 
in  the  warmth  and  shelter.  "It  means  his  immortal  soul — 
that's  what  pleases  me!  It  means  one  more  miracle  of  grace," 
Fanny  stabbed  the  fire  roughly,  "and  it  reconciles  me  to  his 
going  as  nothing  else  could  do!"  she  said,  with  a  wet  sniff  and  a 
toss  of  her  head. 

"Fan,"  Rob  said  suddenly,  "have  you  seen  the  baby  lately?" 

"Not  since  Thanksgiving.     Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Rob  tried  to  assume  his  usual  careless 
manner.  "  I  went  over  to-day,  and  it  seemed  to  me  he  looked 
awfully  weak  and  little.  He's  got  a  grip  in  his  little  fingers;  it 
isn't  that.  But — I  don't  know!  he  kind  of  grinned  at  me, 
but  he — Esme  says  he  don't  eat  very  well,  never  yells  for 
food  like  a  baby  should.  He  just  sat  in  my  lap — the  girls 
were  all  out  but  Esme,  and  I'd  taken  him  a  monkey,  but  he 
didn't  like  it  much."  Rob  looked  down  at  his  book,  his  eyes 
brimmed,  and  he  coughed.  "I  wish  I  had  a  God,"  he  said 
gruffly,  "a  God  that  wouldn't  take  any  satisfaction  in  hurting 
a  baby  like  that!" 

"A — what?  I  didn't  hear  you,  Bob!"  Fanny  glanced  at  him 
suspiciously. 

"Never  mind!  I  suppose  lots  of  children  are  delicate,"  he 
said,  recovering  his  self-control. 

"Lots!  I  remember  the  baby  poor  Mary  Cutler  lost,  just 
kept  losing  weight  and  losing  weight,  we  never  did  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  poor  little  Gerald,"  Fanny  said  sympathe- 
tically. "I  have  never  felt  that  Bobo  was  a  well  baby,  Bob. 
But  we  can  only  hope,  and  realize  that  whatever  happens  it  will 
be  for  the  best.     Better — far,  far  better,  to  have  him  go  now 

than  to  live  to  suffering  and  helplessness "     Fanny  listened. 

A  bell  echoed  through  the  cold  house.  "There's  Dr.  Jerome!" 
she  said,  with  animation.  She  went  out  immediately,  and  Rob 
heard  her  take  the  clergyman  upstairs. 

When  she  came  down  she  was  ecstatic  with  hope.  Pa  had 
providentially  wakened,  had  welcomed  his  pastor.  Fanny  had 
left  them  together;  everything  was  as  it  should  be  now,  she  said, 
taking  her  chair  by  the  fire.  Bob  resumed  his  reading,  but 
Fanny  was  too  much  excited  to  read.  She  fidgeted,  sighed, 
I  fluttered  and  rustled  unceasingly  for  twenty  minutes,  when  the 
clergyman  came  downstairs  again,  his  good  face  bright  with  a 
sort  of  sobered  pleasure. 


zi8    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

He  came  in  to  the  fire,  but  had  little  to  say. 

"Impossible  to  say — impossible  to  say,"  he  answered  Bob's 
natural  question  gravely.  "Age  is  weak — very  weak.  There 
is  every  evidence  of — of  a  speedy — ah,  trial — for  those  who  love 
him.  Our  Heavenly  Father  alone  knows,  and  He  alone  can 
temper  the  blow.  Your  father  wishes  to  see  me  again,"  he  said, 
turning  to  Fanny,  "and  I  will  be  in  at  about  ten  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning.  He  is  much  happier.  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe  that  your  prayers  for  him  will  be  answered." 

Bob  insisted  upon  getting  into  his  overcoat,  to  accompany 
the  clergyman  upon  his  way.  Fanny,  knowing  Bob's  hatred 
for  the  cloth,  was  touched  by  this  evidence  of  filial  feeling.  The 
two  men  went  out  into  the  bitter  still  night  together.  The 
storm  had  blown  itself  out  yesterday,  the  dark  city  lay  under  a 
high  heaven  blazing  with  cold  winter  stars,  and  seemed  to  ring 
faintly  like  an  ice-bound  dome  of  metal.  Their  feet  echoed 
upon  the  pavements  in  the  silence.  Bob  saw  Christmas  trees  in 
draped  bay-windows,  the  branching  green  touching  the  frosted 
glass,  the  gleam  of  red  and  gold  amid  the  little  candles,  and  he 
thought  of  his  boy. 

"I  haven't  thought  of  religion  for  twenty  years,"  Bob  said 
awkwardly  but  deliberately.  The  clergyman  glanced  at  him 
aside. 

"The  death  of  an  old  man  is  a  solemn  thing,"  he  said  seriously 
and  frankly. 

"I  am  afraid  I  may  lose  my  little  boy;  I  lost  the  mother  when 
he  was  born  two  years  ago!"  Bob  could  almost  hear  his  own 
voice  on  the  words,  but  he  did  not,  and  could  not,  utter  them. 
He  longed  for  sympathy,  for  advice,  for  something  that  would 
help  him  hold  little  Bobo  here,  with  his  crooked  little  grin,  and 
his  tightly  grasping  little  claws.  He  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  be 
brought  into  the  fold  where  faith  was  sure,  in  either  joy  or  grief. 
Just  to  know  God  was — and  God  cared ! 

"Good-night!"  he  said  heavily,  at  the  door  of  the  clergy- 
house. 

"Good-night.  Resign  yourself  to  God's  will.  Most  of  us 
must  outlive  our  parents,"  the  older  man  said,  in  his  ready 
pleasant  voice.  Bob  was  amazed  at  the  ease  with  which  he 
spoke  of  sacred  and  embarrassing  things.  He  could  feel  no  con- 
tempt for  Doctor  Jerome,  as  he  hurried  home  in  the  dark. 

Victoria  came  in  the  next  day  and  she  and  Fanny  had  a  satisfy- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  219 

ing  talk  instead.  Victoria  was  taking  lessons  in  free-hand  draw- 
ing from  the  draped  model,  this  winter,  in  an  old  studio  over 
the  California  Street  Market.  She  loved  the  atmosphere  of 
crayons  and  chalk  dust,  the  easels  and  skylights,  the  stale  French 
bread  they  used  to  erase,  and  the  talk  of  the  young  men  and  girls 
about  her,  who  were  all  chiefly  interested,  as  she  was,  in  persuad- 
ing themselves  that  the  atmosphere  of  Hetheringtons  was  exactly 
that  of  an  atelier  in  the  Latin  quarter  of  Paris.  Vicky  usually 
took  her  luncheon  to  the  studio  and  went  home  at  quarter  to 
two,  but  to-day  her  mother  had  told  her  to  go  out  and  find  out 
exactly  how  Grandpa  felt. 

Fanny  was  delighted  to  see  her,  and  after  a  little  talk  sent 
Maggie  down  to  Stephen  for  permission  to  keep  the  girl  over- 
night. The  winter  afternoon  had  closed  in  early  and  gloomy, 
rain  was  slashing  down,  and  California  Street  ran  with  streams 
of  muddy  water.  The  two  women  sat  talking  and  brooding  over 
the  fire,  Fanny  creeping  upstairs  now  and  then  to  see  that  her 
father  was  still  normally  asleep.  Victoria  did  not  exactly  like 
to  suggest  euchre,  but  at  four  o'clock  the  evening  stretched  long 
before  her;  she  filled  her  lap  with  the  stereoscope  pictures,  and 
looked  at  them  while  she  talked,  and  before  dinner  she  went  all 
through  "The  Bell"  again,  and  looked  at  the  cover  of  the  big 
Dante,  but  felt  no  inclination  to  open  it. 

Maggie  banged  things  in  the  kitchen;  Victoria  would  have 
been  glad  to  go  out  and  help  her,  but  she  knew  Aunt  Fanny 
would  not  like  that.  The  back  parlour  was  warm  and  close, 
rain  dripped  and  dripped  on  the  fuchsia  bushes  outside  the  win- 
dow. Victoria  could  smell  upholstery,  plaster,  dust  in  carpets, 
and  the  bindings  of  books,  all  vaguely  unified  by  cold  and  damp 
into  one  odour. 

"The  thankfulness!"  said  Fanny  over  and  over,  shaking  her 

1  crisp  iron-gray  braids  with  a  sort  of  horror  at  the  gulf  from 

which  she  had  been  delivered.    "Now — as  I  told  de  Zecchi — 

now  I  am  resigned  to  anything!     If  Pa  must  go,  and  it  is  God's 

will But  the  thankfulness!" 

After  dinner  Victoria  went  into  her  grandfather's  room  for 
a  few  minutes.  It  was  warm,  orderly,  lifeless:  the  medicine 
bottles  beside  the  bed,  the  glass  covered  with  an  envelope,  the 
shades  drawn  down  at  streaming  window  panes.  A  green- 
shaded  gas  lamp  was  glowing  subduedly  beside  the  grate,  but 
the  bed  was  almost  in  darkness.     Victoria  could  see  the  thin 


220    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

old  wrappered  shoulders,  the  bald  head  and  ivory  face  in  the 
gloom. 

She  essayed  to  speak,  smiled  unnaturally,  cleared  her  throat. 

"Hello,  Grandpa/'  she  managed,  with  the  second  attempt, 
"how  are  you?" 

It  was  almost  frightening  to  have  the  familiar  voice  issue 
from  this  mummy. 

"Resting  Vicky.     Well  and  comfortable,  dear!" 

"That's  good!"  Victoria  said,  swallowing  with  a  dry  throat 
and  wondering,  now  that  she  had  clasped  his  hand,  how  she 
could  ever  let  it  go. 

"You  better  skip,  Miss  Vick!"  Carra  said,  behind  her, 
good-naturedly.  Victoria  gave  her  grandfather  a  parting  smile, 
full  of  affection  and  encouragement.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  her 
to  go. 

When  she  went  downstairs  again,  it  was  to  discover  Aunt 
Fanny  with  two  callers,  women  in  mourning,  whose  thin  kid 
shoes  were  modestly  extended  to  the  replenished  fire.  They 
were  sisters,  a  widow  and  an  unmarried  woman,  who  lived  to- 
gether, renting  rooms,  and  doing  plain  sewing. 

Vicky  knew  this  type,  indeed  almost  all  Aunt  Fanny's  friends 
were  of  this  sort,  and  the  girl  liked  them  because  they  made  her 
own  life  seem  so  young,  so  potentially  rich  and  full.  Poor  little 
meagre  shadows  creeping  among  shadows,  filling  the  back  pews 
of  churches,  waiting  their  turn  in  bakery  and  butcher  shop,  de- 
bating the  purchase  of  buttons  and  shoe  polish,  yet  they  took 
existence  with  a  deadly  seriousness.  A  tiny  error  in  a  bill, 
the  non-delivery  of  a  pint  of  milk,  the  loss  of  a  shabby  and  al- 
most empty  pocketbook,  these  were  their  tragedies;  they  talked 
of  death,  sorrow,  change,  poverty,  and  illness. 

"Indeed,  you  are  blessed,  Miss  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Folsom, 
sadly.     "It's  a  great  grace.     I  remember  my  poor  mother " 

"  I  was  just  going  to  speak  of  Ma,"  Mrs.  Noonan  said,  smil- 
ingly shaking  her  crape-bonneted  head. 

"Oh,  Ma  was  perfectly  wonderful!"  Annie  Folsom  ex- 
claimed. 

"Oh,  the  whole  parish  knew  my  mother!"  Mrs.  Noonan 
added.  The  two  gray,  drab  women  leaned  forward  in  passion- 
ate acclaim  of  their  mother.  Ma  had  been  almost  a  saint,  Ma's 
house  had  been  a  regular  headquarters  for  all  the  beggars  and 
unfortunate  of  the  parish,  Father  Cutler,  who  was  a  bishop  now 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  221 

— certainly,  Bishop  Cutler — oh,  certainly — he  knew  Ma,  de- 
pended upon  her  for  everything,  and  came  all  the  way  from 
Arizona  to  be  at  her  funeral  service. 

Fanny  said  she  must  have  been  a  lovely  woman,  and  Victoria 
added  that  it  was  wonderful  ever  to  have  had  such  a  mother. 

"Oh,  you're  right,  darling! "  Annie  Noonan  said,  in  quick 
affectionate  sympathy  for  Victoria.  Victoria  glowed.  "My 
mother  was  a  saint,  she  prayed  every  day  of  her  life  for  her 
father " 

The  story  of  prayer  and  miracle  went  on,  Vicky  listening  in- 
tently. Fanny,  with  her  convert  father,  was  the  heroine  of  the 
moment. 

Victoria  went  home  in  cold  bright  windy  sunshine  the  follow- 
ing day,  feeling,  as  usual,  braced  by  the  change,  yet  glad  to  go 
back  to  her  own  books  and  bed  and  place  at  the  family  table. 
Fanny  saw  her  to  the  Washington  Street  car,  and  then  went  back 
to  carry  her  mending  into  her  father's  room;  Carra  had  been 
summoned  to  Oakland  for  the  funeral  of  a  small  relative,  and 
Fanny  and  the  invalid  were  alone. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  consult  ye  about,  Fanny," 
said  old  Reuben,  out  of  a  doze.  "I  was  speaking  to  Doctor 
Jerome  about  it  this  morning." 

Fanny  arrested  her  needle  and  looked  at  him,  expectantly 
smiling. 

"I  spoke  to  Jerome  about  it,"  Reuben  said,  musingly.  He 
still  had  a  startling  habit  of  speaking  of  his  clergyman  familiarly, 
but  Fanny  was  too  well  pleased  with  him  just  now  to  be  critical. 
"He  told  me  to  speak  to  Carra,"  her  father  surprised  her  by 
adding,  "but  I  thought  maybe  it'd  be  better  to  speak  to  you 
first." 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  imagine  that  Carra' s  advice  would  be 
extremely  valuable!"  Fanny  said,  laughing,  beating  her  nose, 
with  her  favourite  bridling  motion,  a  little  indignant  at  good 
Doctor  Jerome.     "H'm!     That  seems  rather  funny!" 

The  old  man  was  silent,  and  seemed  dozing.  Fanny  sub- 
sided, shook  her  head,  and  resumed  her  sewing.  He  might  be  a 
little  light-headed,  she  thought. 

"I  want  to  do  what's  right,"  her  father  said,  presently.  "I 
want  to  do  what's  right  by  Carra.  She's  been  a  faithful  friend 
to  me,  Fanny,  all  these  years!" 


222    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Indeed  she  has,  Pa.  I  was  thinking  of  that — the  real  old 
family  servant.  Why  don't  you  leave  her  a  nice  little  sum  that 
will  make  her  feel  that  she  can  go  to  this  niece  in  Oakland — 
furnish  a  room — live  the  rest  of  her  life  in  comfort.  If — if  any- 
thing ever  happens  to  you,  I  shan't  need  her — Maggie  knows 
my  ways  now,  and  two  servants  would  be  ridiculous.  Not  but 
what  I  hope  that  you  will  be  spared  to  me  for  many,  many 
years!" 

"How  much  do  you  think  it  ought  to  be,  Fanny?" 

"Well — let  me  see.  Her  room  and  board  would  cost  her 
practically  nothing — I  suppose  ten  dollars  a  month  would  more 
than  pay  her  niece,  especially  as  Carra  would  be  a  real  help 
with  the  children!  She's  quite  old,  you  know — she  says  she's 
seventy-two.  I  should  suppose  a  few  hundreds — six  hundred 
- — five  hundred — ?  Of  course,  May  might  want  her — espe- 
cially with  Rob's  boy  there,  that  might  be  the  solution," 
pursued  Fanny,  with  energy.  "If  Rob  paid  her — I  don't 
see  why  that  wouldn't  be  a  wonderful  place  for  the  dear  old 
woman!" 

"I  said  to  your  mother,  '  Lou,  I'll  never  live  without  ye!'" 
the  old  man  said,  with  sudden  tears.  "And  at  the  time,  I 
never  thought  of  marrying  again.  But  a  man's  lonely,  Fanny — 
no  girl  can  understand  that.  I  was  lonely!  And  she's  a  fine 
woman,  Carra,  God-fearing,  honest — she's  a  good  woman. 
There's  many  a  white  woman  would  have  felt  different -to  what 
she  did.  'No,  sir,'  she  says,  T'm  not  the  right  woman  to  be  your 
wife,  but  I  ain't  going  to  be  anything  else!'  Character,  there, 
Fanny!  Principle  there,  mulatto  or  no  mulatto!  About  seven 
months  after  your  mother  died  I  took  her  up  to  Ukiah — you'll 
find  it  there  if  you  look — but  she'll  never  mention  it.  Not  if 
you  put  it  to  her  point-blank " 

Fanny  sat  actually  frozen  in  her  seat.  The  ugly,  orderly 
room  swam  before  her  sick  eyes.  What  was  he  saying — what 
was  she  hearing — what  were  these  words  that  were  echoing  upon 
the  still,  close,  heavy  winter  air?  Her  throat  thickened,  her 
heart  seemed  to  have  stopped  beating. 

Her  father  lay  back,  his  eyes  half-shut,  he  was  lazily  smiling. 

"I  felt  different  about  it  a  week  ago,"  he  said.  "But  now  I 
want  everything  to  be  done  right,  Fan.  In  God's  sight  that 
coloured  woman  is  as  good  as  any  of  us — better,  perhaps.  Yes, 
sir,  Carra  is  a  good  woman.     She  reads  her  Bible,  and  she  be- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  223 

lieves  In  her  God.  I've  never  heard  an  ugly  or  a  mean  word  out 
of  her " 

He  drowsed.  Fanny's  head  whirled.  Her  father  was  married 
to  Carra — had  been  married  for  all  the  fifteen  years  since  her 
mother  died!  The  silent,  uncomplaining,  tireless  old  servant 
had  had  her  unrecognized  place  in  the  family  all  this  time! 

No  use  to  blame  him,  to  agitate  him  with  criticism  and  reproof. 
The  fact  remained,  the  humiliating,  hideous  fact  that  a  gaunt 
old  mulatto  was  Mrs.  Reuben  Crabtree 

Fanny  felt  herself  suffocating.  She  had  a  murderous  impulse 
toward  her  father.  What  right  had  he  had  to  take  this  disgrace- 
ful step!  Missing  her  mother,  indeed,  her  handsome  mother 
who,  she  and  May  had  long  ago  decided,  very  probably  had  be- 
longed to  a  branch  of  the  distinguished  Potts  family  of  Virginia, 
and  who  had  always  been  the  model  of  virtue — and — and 
dignity — everything ! 

He  was  serenely  asleep.  Fanny  felt  her  heart  bursting, 
and  gathering  her  sewing,  she  escaped  to  her  own  room,  where 
she  wept  passionately  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

Anger  dried  her  tears.  The  situation  was  unbearable  and 
she  was  infuriated  by  the  realization  that  there  was  no  escape. 
She  rose,  brushed  her  hair,  washed  her  face,  breathing  hard  all 
the  while. 

What  would  May  say?  Fanny's  first  impulse  was  to  get  hold 
of  May,  and  she  even  got  out  her  bonnet  with  the  idea  of  crossing 
the  bay.  But  a  second  thought  prevailed.  Rob  had  been  in 
Stockton  last  night,  but  he  would  be  at  home  to-night,  and  dine 
with  her;  she  heard  herself  telling  him  the  preposterous  story. 

But  perhaps  it  wasn't  true?  Fanny  snorted  at  her  own  weak- 
ness.    Of  course  it  was  true. 

She  said  to  herself  that  she  need  not  tell  Bob,  at  once,  anyway. 
She  need  not  tell  May — the  fewer  people  that  knew  it  the  bet- 
ter.    Dr.  Jerome  was  safe. 

If  Pa  went  ofF  quietly  in  his  sleep  this  afternoon,  for  instance, 
and  Carra  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  at  her  niece's  house, 
then  nobody  would  ever  know.  Oh,  surely  silence  was  her  only 
safety  now! 

"Mag'  say  if  Mist'  Rob  goin'  be  here  for  his  supper,"  said  the 
mild  soft  voice  of  Carra  in  the  doorway.  Fanny  felt  a  violent 
shock  through  her  very  vitals.  Instant  self-defence  helped  her. 
Carra  did  not  know  that  she  knew — nobody  knew  that  she  knew. 


224    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"He  said  so,  Carra!" 

"You  want  me  to  rip  up  that  silk,  Miss  Fanny?" 

"No.  No,  Til  do  it.  Thank  you,  Carra."  Fanny  was 
bathed  in  perspiration,  she  had  to  sit  down  to  rest  her  trembling 
knees  when  Carra  went  away.  All  through  the  evening  she 
found  herself  choking  and  absent-minded.  Pa — married  to 
Carra!  Carra  Pa's  wife!  Carra  able  to  claim  something — 
how  much? — as  Pa's  widow? 

Fanny  was  ready  to  think  of  illness,  death,  as  crosses  sent  as 
guide-posts  to  perfection.  But  this  disgusting  matter  ap- 
peared to  her  in  no  spiritual  light.  It  was  just  disgraceful  and 
awful  and  shameful,  and  she  did  not  even  think  of  praying  about 
it.  Prayer  was  for  totally  different  "trials"  than  this,  for  con- 
versions and  happy  deaths  and  temporal  prosperity. 

She  shut  it  into  her  heart,  but  so  dreadful  was  the  confusion 
into  which  it  had  thrown  her  thoughts,  that  from  this  time  on 
the  thought  of  Pa's  death  was  eclipsed  by  terror  of  what  Carra's 
action  would  be  when  he  died.  Secrecy  was  the  one  vital  thing, 
and  either  one  of  the  old  persons  might  betray  the  whole  matter 
at  any  second.  What  could  Carra  claim?  What  would  press 
and  people  say?  How  much  would  smoothly  unscrupulous 
lawyers  eat  away  from  the  estate  before  she,  Fanny,  would  be 
free  to  enjoy  that  pleasant  dream  of  an  independent  and  free 
existence  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BOB'S  baby  was  not  well.  The  old  San  Rafael  doctor, 
who  had  been  extremely  casual  in  his  first  treatment  of 
the  case,  now  spoke  of  it  as  baffling,  and  requested  a 
consultation. 

"Organically,  the  child  is  sound,"  said  the  doctor  thought- 
fully. "But  there  may  be  complications — of  nutrition.  There 
apparently  is  an  incipient  anaemia." 

May,  receiving  this  opinion,  looked  stricken.  She  tried  to 
feel  stricken  as  well;  she  did  feel  faintly  sorry.  The  death  of 
a  small  child,  even  an  exacting  and  not  prepossessing  small  child, 
was  one  of  the  events  May  classified  as  "too  sad  for  words." 
But  there  were  several  considerations,  and  grief  was  only  one  of 
them.  If  Pa  had  really  left  Bobo  the  house,  with  a  reversionary 
interest  for  May,  then  upon  Bobo's  death  that  troublesome 
point  would  be  settled.  Pa  might  not  have  done  so,  of  course, 
or  Pa  might  change  his  mind  later,  even  if  he  had  done  so. 
While  Bobo  lived,  May  wanted  the  possession  of  him;  if  Pa  died 
during  his  infancy  then  Bob  might  actually  sell  the  house  over 
their  heads,  or  bring  a  second  wife  there 

It  was  confusing  even  to  think  of,  and  May  instinctively  hated 
thought.  She  went  in  and  out  of  the  baby's  nursery  telling  her- 
self that  if  it  was  God's  will  to  take  the  poor  little  fellow  she 
would  not  rebel.  Time  alone  would  tell.  And  meanwhile 
she  honestly  did  her  motherly  best  for  him;  anything  less  would 
have  been  quite  impossible  to  her. 

The  girls  shared  with  her  the  actual  care  of  Bobo.  It  had 
seemed  a  little  shocking  to  her  ideas  of  protecting  them,  at  first, 
that  they  should  do  so,  and  even  now  she  would  answer  a  serene 
"Never  mind,  dear!"  when  Lou  asked  why  the  baby  was  getting 
Dover's  powders,  or  Vicky  interrogated  intelligently,  "What  is 
the  peritoneum,  Mama?" 

"But  I  don't  believe  it  will  do  them  one  bit  of  harm,  Steve," 
May  said  more  than  once,  courageously.     "There  is  nothing 

225 


226    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

wrong  in  their  caring  for  a  little  child.  And  women  are  getting 
so  bold,  nowadays,  and  pushing  into  so  many  things,  that  per- 
haps it's  just  as  well  that  the  girls  should  know  something 

"It's  quite  broken  all  their  hearts,  now  that  they  realize  it 
exactly,"  she  told  him,  after  the  consultation.  "He  really 
doesn't  think  there's  much  chance,  Steve.  Well,  we've  certainly 
done  all  we  could!" 

On  the  day  after  the  consultation  Bob  came  over,  a  changed 
Bob,  serious  and  silent.  He  went  up  at  once  to  the  big,  airy 
chamber  where  his  son  was  lying,  languid  and  still,  after  a  rest- 
less night.  Bobo  seemed  most  contented  when  in  his  father's 
arms,  and  Bob  disposed  his  big  body  as  best  he  might,  and  held 
the  little  fellow  comfortably  against  him. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?"  Bob  leaned  over  him,  making  his  deep 
voice  a  mere  gruff  whisper. 

"It's  his  fish,"  Lou  interpreted,  from  where  she  was  sitting 
beside  the  bed.  "He  calls  that  place  on  the  ceiling,  where 
the  water-stain  is,  his  fish!" 

"Do  you  see  your  fish,  dear?"  Bob  asked.  Bobo  gave  him 
a  shadow  of  his  old,  twisted  grin,  and  shut  his  eyes.  His  dark 
lashes  rested  on  a  colourless  cheek. 

Vicky  came  in,  looking  anxious.  She  carried  a  cup  holding 
the  warm  gruel,  cream,  and  whey  that  was  his  food.  Bobo  re- 
fused the  spoon  fretfully,  turning  away  his  little  silken  head. 

"He  won't  take  it!"  she  said  distressedly. 

"Did  you  try  the  soup?"  May,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  whispered  sympathetically. 

The  warm  afternoon  wore  on,  waned  to  sunset.  Bob  had  a 
cup  of  tea;  he  sat  on  through  the  long  hours,  sometimes  in  the 
rocker,  sometimes  kneeling  beside  the  motionless  little  form, 
always  with  his  gaze  fixed  upon  Bobo's  face. 

The  child  had  a  moment  of  strangling;  they  were  all  about 
him,  propping,  lifting,  agonizing  with  him.  When  they  laid  him 
back  on  the  pillows,  breathing  easily  once  more,  Bob's  hands 
were  wet,  and  he  saw  the  glisten  of  water  on  Lou's  forehead. 

They  tried  the  warm  food  again;  no  use.  Bobo  would  not 
even  open  his  eyes. 

The  doctor  came  in  at  six;  lack  of  vitality,  he  repeated.  The 
child  needed  vitality.  May,  Esme,  Stephen,  looked  gravely  at 
Bob  and  Bobo,  from  behind  him. 

Then  it  was  night,  and  a  lamp  made  the  warm  room  warmer. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    227 

Twilight  lingered  among  the  overgrown  roses  and  pampas  bushes 
of  the  garden,  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  first  dews.  Tina  and 
her  parson  were  talking  down  in  the  currant  bushes;  Bob, 
standing  at  the  window,  saw  the  old  wooden  horse's  head  looking 
down  over  the  stable  door,  and  a  pile  of  new  planks  beyond, 
where  someone  was  putting  a  cottage  in  what  had  once  been  the 
pasture.  An  enormous  moon  floated  up  over  the  velvet  black 
of  the  oaks.  There  were  shadows  like  black  lace  under  the  old 
grape-arbour. 

May  sat  and  murmured  with  him  for  a  long  time;  Stephen 
came  in,  gravely  concerned.     He  shook  his  square  beard. 

"While  there's  life  there's  hope,  Bob!" 

Bob,  for  some  reason  angered,  talked  of  the  business.  Eleven 
o'clock  came,  May  said  she  would  lie  down;  Stephen  had  gone 
to  bed.  Tina  was  to  sit  and  keep  Uncle  Bob  company  for 
awhile. 

He  knew  Bobo  was  very  ill;  for  when  Tina  yawned  and 
stumbled  to  bed,  May  came  back,  stupid  with  sleep  at  two 
o'clock,  and  after  that,  when  it  was  nearly  three,  Vicky  came  in. 

She  looked  rosy  and  dishevelled;  her  bright  eyes  were  dark 
with  sympathetic  pain.  In  her  hand  she  carried  a  cup  of  the 
warm  food. 

"The  darling!"  she  said,  kneeling  beside  the  child.  He 
jerked  his  head  away  from  the  spoon.  Vicky  looked  at  Bob's 
stricken  face,  at  her  mother's  weary  one,  and  sudden  impatience 
possessed  her.  "Here  now,  Bobo,  you  stop  being  naughty!" 
she  said  sharply.  The  closed  eyes  opened  in  amazement;  there 
was  in  them  a  certain  surprised  docility.  The  pallid  little  lips 
moved;  there  was  a  faint  sucking  sound. 

"He's  taking  it!"  she  whispered,  in  a  voice  robbed  of  every- 
thing but  amazement. 

Bob  had  sunk  upon  his  knees,  his  tired  eyes  were  dark  with 
hope. 

"Dad's  good  little  boy!"  he  whispered,  trembling  violently, 
one  big  hand  covering  Bobo's  lifeless  little  hand;  "he  is  taking 
it  for  his  father!" 

Victoria  said  no  more,  she  had  concentrated  her  whole  being, 
as  never  in  life  before,  upon  the  little  face  on  the  pillows  and  the 
spoon  in  her  hand.  Steadily,  blind  to  everything  else,  she 
moved  the  life-giving  fluid  to  and  fro — five  times,  seven  times, 
ten  times. 


228    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"I'm  afraid  to  give  him  any  more!"  she  breathed.  Bobo 
licked  his  little  lips,  turned  upon  his  side  with  a  satisfied  sigh, 
slept.  Bob  broke  into  tears,  hiding  his  face  against  the  little 
hand  on  the  bed. 

i     "Ten    spoonfuls!"     Victoria    said,    eyes    wide    with    utter 
astonishment. 

Bob  remained  motionless;  he  had  raised  his  head  and  was 
staring  at  her,  but  while  the  child  slept  he  did  not  move. 

Bobo  had  more  nourishment  at  five  o'clock,  at  seven  he  asked 
for  his  new  bear.  By  noon  the  girls  and  the  neighbours  were 
spreading  the  news  that  the  Crabtree  baby  was  much  better; 
yes,  he  had  had  quite  a  close  call.  May  felt  an  irritated  reac- 
tion, deep  in  her  soul.  She  did  not  put  it  into  words,  perhaps 
hardly  analyzed  it,  but  she  felt  cross  and  weary  all  day.  To 
Victoria's  amazement,  she  recalled  similar  vigils  with  all  her 
babies. 

The  girl  walked  in  an  aura  of  miracle.  Death  had  been  in 
that  dark  room;  life  had  come  back  triumphant.  She  never 
forgot  the  slow  gray  dawn,  raising  the  garden  bushes  from 
shadows  into  toneless  shapes,  from  shapes  into  green  beauty 
with  the  light  tipping  it.  A  red  streak  down  toward  the  marsh, 
pink  clouds  sailing  away  like  little  galleons  in  a  sea  of  trembling 
blue,  and  the  windows  of  the  Duflicy's  house  flashing  like  dia- 
monds. And  Bobo  asleep  with  his  bear,  the  cup  empty  on  the 
stand  beside  him! 

She  gave  him  his  breakfast  at  nine,  and  when  the  restored 
Bobo  looked  rebellious  she  said  again  sharply:  "Now  you  be  a 
good  boy!"  and  he  obeyed.  Uncle  Bob  could  leave  comfortably 
for  the  office  at  noon;  the  doctor  observed  sapiently  that  he 
had  known  it  was  merely  a  question  of  restoring  the  child's 
vitality. 

Bob  put  his  arms  about  Vicky,  in  good-bye. 

"I'll  not  forget  what  you  did,  Vick — what  you  all  did.  Just 
try  me,  by  asking  me  a  favour  some  day!" 

"Resign  from  the  firm!"  was  the  daughterly  thought  that 
flashed  into  Vicky's  mind.  But  she  did  not  say  it.  Her  lashes 
twinkled  with  tears  as  she  smiled,  and  May  kissed  her  in  great 
felicity  and  approval,  reflecting  that  this  was  an  extremely 
satisfactory  way  in  which  to  leave  the  matter.  She  did  not 
see  Bob  dispossessing  them  now!  she  told  Stephen  triumph- 
antly. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    229 

Tina  was  making  herself  a  blue  dimity  gown.  She  had.  several 
delightful  events  in  mind,  as  she  made  it,  an  autumn  wedding  to 
which  she  would  wear  it,  and  the  lunch  party  Mama  was  going  to 
give  the  sister  Mr.  Yelland  expected  soon  from  Boston.  He 
might  ask  her  to  walk  up  past  the  convent,  too,  under  the  big 
maple  trees,  and  she  would  surely  wear  it  then. 

I  Meanwhile  it  was  a  joy  just  to  make  it.  The  dimity  was 
striped,  dark  blue  on  light  blue;  it  was  stiff,  dainty,  almost 
transparent,  and  was  trimmed  with  some  twenty  yards  of  narrow 
cream-coloured  lace.  The  sleeves  were  puffed  fully  at  the  top, 
each  sleeve  required  four  yards  of  the  narrow  material,  and  the 
skirt  was  belled  and  touched  the  ground  all  about  Tina's  new 
black  oxfords.  And  she  had  a  broad  black-straw  hat  with 
several  yards  of  mull  wrapped  around  the  low  crown.  Alto- 
gether Tina  felt  that  she  had  never  had  a  more  pleasing  costume. 

Life  had  been  a  trifle  flat  through  mid-summer  after  the 
gradual  clearing  of  the  clouds  that  hung  over  Grandpa  and  dear 
little  Bobo.  The  latter  had  recovered  lost  ground  steadily,  but 
he  had  not  stopped  there.  From  deep  sleeps  and  ravenous  at- 
tention to  meals,  Bobo  had  progressed  to  roundness,  rosiness, 
placidity;  he  sat  in  paths  now,  sifting  dust  upon  faded  calico 
aprons,  and  when  Bob  came  to  see  him,  he  met  his  father  with 
shouts,  requests  for  more  effalunts,  and  confidences  regarding 
froggies  and  mousies. 

Grandpa,  more  slowly,  had  also  reached  at  least  his  former 
level  of  vitality.  Presumably  dying  by  inches  through  Feb- 
ruary, March,  and  April,  he  had  turned  some  obscure  corner, 
by  nursing,  resting  and  care,  and  by  July  he  could  reopen  his 
desk  in  the  office  again,  and  make  himself  thoroughly  obnoxious 
at  the  stockholders'  meeting  of  Crabtree  and  Company. 

Everyone  felt  the  reaction  from  strong  emotion,  presumably 
even  Rob,  who  so  rarely  displayed  any  sensitiveness.  May 
sighed  that  it  almost  seemed  that  it  would  have  been  kinder, 
in  some  anonymous  deity,  to  "take"  dear  Pa,  rather  than  let 
him  drag  on  in  suffering  and  helplessness.  Stephen  grew  grave, 
and  there  was  more  gray  in  his  hair.  He  began  a  habitual 
nagging  of  Bertie  that  was  infinitely  distressing  to  May.  At 
the  tiny  Bobo's  triumphant  rally  from  the  actual  chill  of  death, 
Stephen  had  merely  remarked  good-naturedly: 

"We'll  be  paying  you  rent,  yet,  young  man!  Certainly," 
he  had  added,  to  May's  surprised  and  displeased  smile,  "cer- 


230  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tainly.  The  minute  your  father  dies  we  are  this  child's  tenants 
— you  must  realize  that?" 

Fanny's  reaction  was  the  most  painful  of  all.  She  had 
prayed  for  fifteen  years  that  her  father  might  not  be  snatched 
from  life  without  a  complete  reconciliation  with  his  God,  and 
now,  in  the  very  instant  of  triumph,  she  must  be  sickened  and 
frightened  by  the  revelation  of  his  utter  insensibility  to  decency 
and  propriety.  She  looked  upon  his  complacent  return  to 
health  with  impatient  contempt.  Oh,  of  course  he  would  get 
well,  Fanny  reflected  bitterly.  Of  course  Carra,  having  eaten 
her  way  into  the  family  like  some  pestiferous  insect,  would 
fondly  nurse  and  coddle  him  back  to  his  old  routine  of  milk- 
toast  and  sunny  windows,  guarded  airings  and  much  reading 
and  solitaire. 

He  made  no  further  allusion  to  his  preposterous  marriage; 
Fanny  was  quite  shrewd  enough  to  suspect  that  he  did  not  feel 
quite  sure  he  had  ever  betrayed  himself.  Carra  wore  her  usual 
mask  of  quiet  attention,  service,  respect.  What  Mist'  Crabtree 
and  Miss  Fanny  wanted  was  Carra' s  law,  as  she  puttered  to 
and  fro  with  trays  and  brooms,  showing  Dr.  Jerome  upstairs, 
answering  Bob's  banter — Bob  came  in  almost  every  evening — 
with  respectful  yet  appreciative  laughter. 

But  her  secret  knowledge  of  Carra  bit  like  acid  into  Fanny's 
soul.  It  was  all  so  humiliating — all  such  a  farce.  She  herself 
would  continue  Pa's  dutiful  and  attentive  daughter,  until 
such  time  as  he  really  died,  and  then  Carra  would  step  in,  and 
claim  everything  that  was  Fanny's  by  right,  disgracing  and 
shaming  them  all!  And  Fanny  began  to  think  that  she  would 
like  to  go  abroad  now,  right  away.  She  wanted  to  see  Italy. 
The  doctor  had  told  her  that  her  father  might  live  five  years  or 
more. 

"H'm — a  lot  they  know!"  Fanny  said,  impatiently.  "Make 
you  sick — doctors!  Frightening  the  life  out  of  you  for  nothing! 
I  believe  Pa'll  live  to  be  ninety,  myself!" 

The  Italian  plan  taking  more  and  more  hold  upon  her,  she 
went  to  San  Rafael  one  day,  to  hint  at  it,  and  gratify  herself 
by  witnessing  the  girls'  ecstasies  of  excitement  and  interest. 
She  had  thought  it  all  over,  and  had  determined  to  take  Tina, 
although  she  was  really  fonder  of  Vicky.  But  Vicky  was  too 
uncertain,  always  plunging  madly  into  absurdities,  and  then 
Vicky  had  her  art  work.     Esme  was  just  a  little  bit  prim  and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    231 

old-maidy,  and  Fanny  told  herself  with  a  jolly  toss  of  her 
head  that  she  didn't  propose  to  be  trammelled  in  any  way  on 
this  particular  spree. 

It  was  Vicky's  day  at  Hetherington's,  this  particular  Sep- 
tember afternoon  that  she  chose  to  call,  but  the  other  girls 
were  at  home,  grouped  with  their  books  and  sewing  on  the 
lawn.  The  baby  was  toddling  gravely  about,  making  his 
white  lamb  bite  various  feet  and  hands  in  a  most  unlamblike 
manner,  and  causing  Lou's  cat  to  pull  himself  indignantly  up, 
and  move  from  one  lazy  position  to  another,  over  and  over 
again.  Lou  looked  extremely  pretty  in  a  faded  old  blue  cotton, 
her  soft  hair  had  just  been  washed,  and  she  kept  pushing  it 
about  with  impatient  hands,  and  changing  the  pins.  Esme 
was  pale,  and  said  she  had  had  another  neuralgic  headache, 
was  just  getting  over  it.  Tina  was  radiant,  in  her  rather  solid 
blonde  fashion,  in  the  new  dimity;  it  immediately  appeared  that 
Mr.  Yelland  was  going  to  call. 

"You  don't  want  me  here,  then!"  Aunt  Fanny  rustled 
herself,  but  it  was  a  mere  pretense.  She  laughed  gaily  as 
Tina  forcibly  pressed  her  back  into  her  chair. 

"Tina  may  take  a  little  walk  with  him,  and  then  we'll  all 
have  tea  here,  with  Vicky's  new  brass  kettle,"  May  said, 
serenely.  Bits  of  gossip  followed,  Nelly  had  a  new  baby,  a 
boy,  born  on  the  last  day  of  August.  She  had  named  him  Clif- 
ford. Esme  said  that  Nelly  had  wanted  another  girl,  to  name 
Dorothy,  but  May,  glancing  at  Lou,  indicated  with  raised  eye- 
brows that  this  hint  of  the  unborn  was  not  permissible,  and 
Esme  flushed  and  subsided.  And  poor  Lily  Duvalette  was 
terribly  ill — in  the  hospital.  In  the  hospital!  This  meant  a 
desperate  situation  indeed.  Davy  Dudley  was  in  his  second 
year  of  medical  college,  poor  Davy.  Bertie  had  met  him, 
waiting  on  tables  in  a  horrible  cheap  restaurant  in  Market 
Street.  What  Bertie  himself  was  doing  there  she  didn't  know, 
May  said,  with  a  faint  laugh  of  censure,  but  Davy  had  told 
him  that  he  got  his  meals  for  six  hours'  service  a  day.  Lucky 
Nelly,  Esme  said,  that  she  didn't  marry  him. 

Well !    Then  it  was  time  for  Italy,  and   Fanny  got  all 

the  gasps  and  raptures  that  she  had  anticipated.  She  did  not 
mention  any  companion  at  first,  but  when  Esme  had  carried 
Bobo  in  for  his  nap,  and  May  and  Lou  had  followed  to  make 
sandwiches  for  tea,  Fanny  found  herself  alone  with  the  blue 


232  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

dimity  ruffles,  and  then  she  could  not  quite  resist  the  tempta- 
tion. 

"I  know  a  very  pretty  girl  that'll  feel  sorry  if  her  old  aunt 
gets  lost  among  the  catacombs !"  she  said,  gaily. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny,  even  that  would  be  fun!"  Tina  smiled, 
swiftly  feather-stitching  a  little  flannel  sacque  for  the  new 
Sessions  baby.  Her  fair  hair,  still  damp  from  brushing,  her 
plump  busy  hands,  her  flushed,  serene  cheek  all  spoke  alike  the 
beloved  and  desired  woman. 

"Well,  then — why  don't  you  go  with  me?"  It  was  Fanny's 
great  moment;  she  looked  up  quizzical,  daring,  smiling. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny,  you're  joking!" 

"If  I  am — "  the  gray  head  tossed —  "the  joke's  on  me, 
then!" 

Tina  grew  red;  but  for  Tina  to-day  there  was  no  choice. 

"There's  only  one  thing  that  could  keep  me  from  accepting 
your  wonderful,  wonderful  offer,"  she  said  breathlessly,  after  a 
a  moment,  "and  that  would  be — because" —  and  Tina 
dimpled  and  looked  down — "because  someone — wanted  me  to 
stay  here!" 

This  was  unexpected,  and  Fanny's  hard  cheek  grew  red  in 
turn.  Her  great  treat,  her  unheard-of  offer,  had  been  quietly 
declined.  Tina  had  other  plans.  Fanny's  quick  passionate 
temper  rose  and  her  laugh  had  an  edge.  She  batted  the  end 
of  her  nose  nervously. 

"Indeed!  I  might  have  saved  myself  the  trouble  of  annoy- 
ing you  with  my  invitation  then!"  she  said,  hardly  believing 
her  ears. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny !"     Tina  was  so  much  startled  by  the 

tone  that  she  put  her  sewing  aside,  and  dropped  quickly  on  her 
knees  on  the  dry  grass,  beside  her  aunt's  chair.     "Why,  it  was 

the  loveliest  thing — and   I've    always   been    dying  to  go 

But  you  see — you  see — you  know  how  it  is,  Aunt  Fanny !" 

"I  see  that  I'm  not  wanted,  and  so  I  had  much  better  take 
myself  away!"  Fanny  said,  in  a  bright,  hard  voice.  "Well, 
I'm  surprised  and  delighted  that  any  girl  nowadays  can  decline 
to  take  a  wonderful  trip  to  Europe,"  she  said  loudly.  "Italy, 
Paris,  Venice — oh,  just  toss  it  off!  *  No,  thanks,  I'd  rather  not !' 
Very  well,  dear — by  all  means  do  exactly  as  you  like " 

"Aunt  Fanny " 

"Oh,  don't  Aunt  Fanny  me!     You  may  be  sure  that  I  won't 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  233 

trouble  you  again,  my  dear!  And  now,"  said  Fanny,  on  her 
feet  and  shaking  her  flounces,  "I  must  go  for  that  four  o'clock 
train.  I'll  just  stop  and  say  good-bye  to  your  mother  and  the 
girls.  And  some  day,  when  you  can  spare  the  time,  perhaps 
you'll  deign  to  come  and  see  me!" 

Tina  sat  on,  mechanically  feather-stitching,  a  little  dazed 
by  the  unpleasantness  of  it.  Esme  would  have  returned  a  fire 
of  peppery  remarks  to  Aunt  Fanny's  fire;  Vicky  would  have 
rapturously  accepted  the  invitation,  even  if  she  had  been  on 
the  brink  of  an  engagement,  even  if  she  had  been  on  the  brink 
of  marriage,  and  trusted  the  future  to  settle  everything  har- 
moniously. Tina  wished  now  that  she  had  been  a  trifle  more 
enthusiastic. 

"But  I  can't  help  it!"  she  said,  uncomfortably.  "What 
could  I  do?" 

And  here,  punctually,  was  Vernon  Yelland,  trim  and  brushed 
in  his  black,  taking  the  chair  near  her,  studying  the  flannel 
sacque  with  a  smile,  remarking  that  his  mother,  also  a  clergy- 
man's wife,  had  had  to  make  hundreds  of  those.  Tina's  heart 
sang  again,  and  she  saw  a  parsonage  garden,  and  herself  in 
another  chair,  and  diminutive  flannels  again  in  her  hands. 

May  and  Vicky  came  out,  Vicky  just  back  from  town.  The 
time  to  suggest  the  walk  up  by  the  convent  had  com»  But 
first  Mr.  Yelland  had  something  to  say. 

"I've  had  another  letter  from  my  sister,  and  she  gets  here 
the  eighteenth,"  he  said  beaming,  "and  now  I  want  to  tell 
you — my  best  friends  here,  a  little  piece  of  news.  The  young 
lady  I  am  to  marry,  Miss  Grace  Fairchild,  is  coming  with  my 
sister,  and  I  believe  my  old  colleague,  Harvey  Masson,  will 
come  down  from  Sacramento  to  perform  my  wedding  cere- 
mony, as  I  did  his  some  months^ago." 

"Well !"  May  said  bravely.      And  no  mother  sparrow 

ever  drew  the  marauder's  attention  more  gallantly  from  her 
young  than  did  May  hold  his  eyes  from  Tina  now.  "Well, 
what  a  surprise!     So  y^u  are  to  be  married!" 

"When,  Mr.  Yelland?  You  must  tell  us  all  about  it!"  Vic- 
toria was  a  good  second.  "Miss  Fairchild  ? "  she  said  at  random. 
"Is  she  a  Californian?" 

"No,  she  is  a  Bostonian,  I  served  my  first  curacy  under  her 
father,"  Vernon  Yelland  said  happily.  "That  was  five — 
seven  years  ago,  and  I  may  say  that  ever  since  then "     He 


234  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

laughed,  a  dry  little  complacent  laugh.  "However,  when  I 
went  back  to  Boston  last  year,  for  my  vacation,  the  thing  was 
practically  settled,  and  a  few  letters  arranged  it  all!  Grace — " 
He  took  out  a  pocketbook,  and  from  it  a  photograph  of  a 
virginal,  plain  young  head.  "That's  Grace,"  he  said  simply; 
"she's  very  beautiful — one  of  the  most  beautiful  faces  I  have 
ever  seen!  Yes.  I  wanted  you  to  know — I  told  her  that 
she  would  find  a  mother  and  sisters  waiting  to  welcome  her, 
in  my  dear  friends  the  Brewers.  We  hope" — he  was  business- 
like — "to  arrange  for  a  Sunday  wedding,  possibly  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  September,  possibly  a  week  later.  That  will  depend 
upon  Masson's  engagements,  but  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  ar- 
range it.  Most  fortunately  Miss  Fairchild  and  Mrs.  Masson 
were  old  friends,  girl  chums,  in  fact,  so  that  will  be  very  pleas- 
ant for  Grace." 

Victoria  began  to  feel  that  she  could  not  keep  up  the  strain; 
Tina  was  pallid,  but  smiling  fixedly,  her  sister  could  see  her 
swallow  now  and  then  with  blinking  eyes  and  a  convulsed 
throat. 

"Well,  I  almost  feel  that  I  want  to  scold  you  for  not  taking 
us  into  your  confidence  before  this!"  May  said,  a  little  tartly. 

"Mama !"  Tina  articulated,  suffocating  with  shame. 

"Indeed,  I  should  have  done  so!"  Mr.  Yelland  assured  them 
Eagerly,  "but  Grace  was  unwilling  that  any  one  should  know. 
I  daresay  that  a  penniless  clergyman  is  not  a  brilliant  match 
for  a  Bishop's  daughter,"  he  added,  merrily,  "but  I  must  be 
duly  humble,  must  I  not?  And  now  are  we  not  to  have  tea? 
I  have  been  waiting  all  day  for  my  cup  of  tea!" 

"I  will !"     Vicky  rose  tumultuously.     But  May  spoke 

quickly. 

"You  go,  Tina,  darling!"  Tina  flashed  away  in  the  blue 
dimity,  and  presently  Lou  came  out  with  the  tea,  looking 
scared  and  bewildered,  and  then  Esme  with  the  fresh  and  dewy 
Bobo  in  diagonal  buttons,  and  lastly  Tina,  pale  and  quiet  but 
quite  equal  to  the  occasion. 

When  the  gate  had  closed  behind  the  clergyman,  and  the 
autumn  sunset  was  streaming  across  the  tumbled  tea-things, 
May,  looking  timidly  at  Tina,  said: 

"Mama  was  proud  of  you,  darling!" 

The  other  girls  looked  constrained.  Tina  said,  hurriedly 
and  uncomfortably: 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  235 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Mama!  He  had  a  perfect  right  to 
marry  any  one  he  pleases  for  all  me!" 

"I  think  he's  got  a  gall,"  Lou  said  inelegantly.  Tina 
laughed,  became  hysterical,  and  began  to  cry  in  Vicky's  arms. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me!"  she  choked, 
trying  to  laugh  again.  "Except  that  I  ironed  all  those  curtains 
this  morning — and  then  they  looked  so  horrid " 

"They  looked  perfectly  lovely,"  May  interpolated. 

"And  then  Aunt  Fanny  was  so  disagreeable!"  Tina  pursued, 
looking  at  her  handkerchief  before  she  wiped  eyes  and  nose 
with  it.  "You  were  awfully  nice,  Vick,"  she  said,  softly  and 
thickly. 

"Who  cares  what  he  does — the  old  stuck-up!"  Lou  said 
boldly. 

"Lou — he  is  a  clergyman,  dear!" 

"I  know,  Mama,  but  Tina'll  have  twenty  better  beaus  than 
he  hi" 

"I  hope  she's  a  good  manager,"  May  said  darkly,  "but  she 
doesn't  sound  so!     He  only  gets  nine  hundred  a  year." 

"She  looks  like  a  person  who  would  recite  poetry,"  Lou,  the 
noncommittal,  said  scornfully,  but  Tina  did  not  join  in  the 
general  laughter. 

"You  had  your  fun  with  him,  and  now  forget  him!"  Vicky 
summarized  bracingly.  This  attitude  was  infinitely  helpful 
to  everyone  except  poor  Tina. 

"No,  Vick,  don't  ever  say  she  played  with  him!"  May  said, 
earnestly.     "I  hope  my  girls  wouldn't  flirt  with  any  one!" 

"No,  Mama!"  Vick  said  dutifully.  They  all  had  the  cue 
now. 

"But  I  think  that  a  man  in  his  position  naturally  would 
not  aspire  to  a  rich  man's  daughter,"  May  went  on,  "and  I 
think  in  your  innocent  sisterly  friendliness,  dear,  you  perhaps 
misled  him  a  little.  Mama  knew  that  you  were  not  serious, 
but  perhaps  Mr.  Yelland  did  not  quite  understand!" 

"Tina  wouldn't  have  hurt  him  for  the  world!"  said  Esme, 
loyally. 

"No,  dear,  Mama  knows  that.  And  no  harm  has  been  done. 
If  he  was  hurt,  as  we  know,  he  found  consolation  with  this  very 
plain,  but  sweet-looking  girl — although  she  looks  delicate — 
his  old  friend.  He  may  have  told  her  all  about  my  Tina," 
May  said,  convinced  from  this  second  that  it  was  so,  "and 


236    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

while  he  was  not  in  love  with  her  then — for  if  he  had  been 
there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he  shouldn't  have  married 
her  years  ago — her  sympathy  was  no  doubt  very  pleasant  to 
him,  and  now  it's  all  settled,  and  we  must  try  to  befriend  the 
poor  little  thing  in  her  first  struggles." 

When  May  told  her  husband  about  it  that  night,  she  was 
entirely  sure  of  her  ground,  and  in  subsequent  recitals,  to  Fanny 
and  Lucy,  the  story  ran  even  more  smoothly. 

"Vernon  Yelland  told  us  of  his  engagement  to-day,  Steve — he 
is  to  marry  quite  a  nice-looking  girl,  not  pretty,  but — well,  and 
rather  delicate,  too,  but  pleasant-faced.  He  turned  to  her, 
when  he  couldn't  get  Tina,  and  this  is  the  natural  rebound. 
Oh,  yes,  Tina  knows,  and  I  think  it's  really  a  great  relief  to  her, 
although  perhaps  she  feels  just  a  little  bit  sore  now,  dear  child. 
She  looked  perfectly  beautiful  as  she  congratulated  him.  She 
couldn't  marry  him,  Steve,  and  I  can't  blame  her!  He's  not 
really  in  love  now,  you  can  see  that,  but  it  may  turn  out  very 
well.  Of  course,  like  any  girl,  Tina  was  tempted  for  a  little 
while,  but  I  think  she  feels  she's  acted  wisely,  and  I  am  glad  he 
has  consoled  himself.  Ministers'  wives  have  such  rafts  of  chil- 
dren, Steve,  and  while  of  course  we  could  have  helped  out " 

And  so  on  and  on.  But  Tina  was  pale  and  quiet  for  a  long 
time  afterward,  and  the  name  of  the  fickle  clergyman  was 
quietly  dropped  from  general  discussion.  A  week  later  Tina 
told  her  mother  something  of  Fanny's  proposal. 

"Mama,  would  there  be  any  reason  why  I  should  not  go  to 
see  Aunt  Fanny,  and  just  tell  her  frankly  that  I  didn't  feel  like 
going  away,  then,  but  that  I  do  now?  I  would  so  like  to  get 
away — there's  next  week,  you  know " 

Next  week  Mr.  Yelland's  promised  bride  was  expected.  May 
understood. 

"Well,  I  think  I  would,  dear.  Go  see  Aunt  Fanny.  Talk 
about  the  wonderful  trip  she  would  have — Rob  says  she's  given 
up  the  idea,  lately,  but  never  mind.  Try  to  do  what  Vicky 
would  do,  Tina.     Flatter  her  a  little,  nicely,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  can't  chatter  the  way  Vicky  does!" 

"I  don't  mean  chatter.  But  there  would  be  no  harm  in 
suggesting  that  you  were  so  delighted  with  the  idea  of  going 
with  her  that  you  rather — well,  put  off  Mr.  Yelland!" 

"Mama — as  if  she  didn't  know  he  was  going  to  be  married 
right  away!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  237 

"I  don't  say  tell  her  that  definitely,  Tina,  but  just  suggest 
it!" 

"But  Mama — "  Tina's  honest  blue  eyes  were  perplexed — 
"wouldn't  that  be  a  lie?" 

"You  needn't  make  it  a  lie,  Tina.  Just  please  Aunt  Fanny 
— you  know  she's  a  little  cranky,  dear!" 

"Mama,  I  couldn't  act  a  lie,  for  a  thousand  Aunt  Fannies!" 

"Well!"  May  sighed.  "See  what  you  can  do,  anyway!" 
she  said,  in  conclusion. 

"Isn't  it  a  wonderful  prospect  that  is  opening  before  my 
little  girl?"  she  could  say  pleasantly  to  Mr.  Yelland  after 
service  the  next  day;  "we  think  my  sister — Miss  Crabtree, 
you  know,  who  has  always  been  Tina's  special  fairy-godmother 
— may  take  her  abroad." 

Tina  watched  her  chance,  and  one  night  on  a  visit  to  Grandpa, 
after  she  and  Vicky  and  Aunt  Fanny  had  been  playing  euchre 
with  Uncle  Rob,  in  the  California  Street  back-parlour,  and 
when  Vicky  and  Rob  were  picking  out  "Tarara-boom-de-ay" 
on  the  piano,  she  bravely  returned  to  the  subject.  Fanny  had 
won  the  game,  and  was  somewhat  relaxed  and  mellowed,  but 
she  instantly  saw  her  opportunity  for  a  little  retaliation. 

"Do  I  ever  think  any  more  of  Italy?  Dear  me,  no — being 
snubbed  once  was  enough!"  Fanny  said  lightly. 

"Aunt  Fanny — as  if  I  meant  to  snub  you!     Imagine!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  meant  to  do,  but  dear  me!  I  cer- 
tainly put  my  foot  in  it  that  day — poor  me!  You  almost 
frightened  me  out  of  my  wits.  I  had  supposed  that  being 
offered  a  trip  to  Italy  might  be  considered  pleasant,  but  it'll  be 
a  long  time  before  I  get  my  courage  to  offer  anybody  anything 
again!" 

"Aunt  Fanny,  if  only  you  knew  how  often  I've  thought  of  it 
since.  It  wasn't  that  I  didn't  mean  that  it  was  a  perfectly 
wonderful  opportunity " 

But  it  was  too  late.  Fanny  had  the  whip  hand  now,  and 
never  was  a  woman  who  enjoyed  it  more. 

"Ah,  well,  you  should  have  thought  of  that  before,  then. 
I  don't  go  toiling  way  over  to  San  Rafael  just  to  have  somebody 
say,  'Thank  you,  I'd  rather  not!'  Oh,  no,  I  have  plenty  of 
other  things  to  do.  It  seemed  to  me  you  and  I  could  have  had 
lots  of  fun,  poking  about  in  London  and  Italy;  you  didn't 
think  so.     It's  not  my  fault  if  you've  changed  your  mind!     It 


23 8  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

thought  then  that  you  were  just  a  little  bit  too  sure — but, 
laws!  half  the  things  you  girls  do  is  perfectly  mystifying  to  me. 
If  you  wanted  to  come  to  Europe,  all  you  had  to  say  was  yes. 
You  didn't,  and  now  my  mind  is  full  of  other  things!" 

And  Fanny,  trembling  a  little,  laid  out  a  game  of  Canfield, 
and  quite  composedly  hummed  "Just  a  Bunch  of  Lilacs," 
against  "Tarara-boom-de-ay!"  as  she  shifted  kings  and  tens. 
Poor  Tina,  with  a  murmur  to  the  effect  that  she  just  wanted  to 
thank  Aunt  Fanny,  and  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  trip  had 
been  given  up,  assumed  a  sudden  interest  in  the  game. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FANNY  was  rasped  just  now  because  Harry,  coming  to 
see  her  with  Georgie  in  mid-morning,  had  asked  her  out- 
right for  the  loan  of  a  few  hundred  dollars.  It  had  al- 
ways been  an  unwritten  law  in  the  family  that  Fanny  hated  to 
talk  of  money,  and  that  her  own  was  sacred,  not  to  be  touched, 
or  even  mentioned  to  her.  It  ruffled  and  angered  her  to  be 
forced  into  refusing  Harry,  and  yet,  with  all  that  she  did  in  the 
way  of  Christmas  presents,  expensive  books,  for  the  girls,  and 
teacups  for  May,  and  a  money  offering  at  Saint  Mark's,  and 
with  her  constant  expenses  at  home,  and  the  suit  for  Georgie, 
and  the  San  Rafael  tickets  twice,  when  she  chanced  to  meet 
Lucy  at  the  ferry,  it  did  seem  hard  that  she  should  be  approached 
so  openly,  and  for  so  large  a  sum.  She  told  Harry  that  she 
would  have  had  a  hard  time  to  put  her  hand  on  that  much 
money  herself;  it  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  had  three  hun- 
dred dollars  to  spend  as  she  pleased,  but  of  course  if  he  felt  he 
couldn't  do  without  it,  she  would  see  what  she  could  do.  Pa 
was  really  the  person  to  go  to,  or  Stephen;  men  knew  so  much 
more  about  those  things.  But  she  would  write  Harry  at  once 
and  let  him  know. 

It  had  not  been  easy  for  Harry  Crabtree  to  beg  a  favour  from 
his  sister,  even  though  he  was  very  fond  of  Fanny  and  they  had 
never  quarrelled.  But  it  was  harder  for  him  to  go  back  to  the 
Mission  and  tell  Lucy  that  while  Fanny  had  been  very  nice, 
she  had  said  that  she  did  not  have  the  money,  and  that  if  she 
could  raise  it  she  would  write  him.  The  mail  came  down 
Harry's  street  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  he  re- 
flected that  even  if  Fanny  wrote  to-night,  there  would  be  an- 
other inevitable  interval  of  worry. 

It  was  a  damp,  foggy  day,  with  whirls  of  cold,  sudden  wind. 
Harry  walked  all  the  way  from  California  Street,  down  Van 
Ness,  across  Market,  and  out  Mission.  He  felt  tired  and  a 
little  perplexed;  a  stupid  sort  of  dullness  seemed  floating  be- 

239 


24o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tween  reality  and  his  brain.  What  was  the  matter  with  him? 
He  had  been  a  fairly  confident,  energetic  sort  of  boy.  He 
remembered  yachting  trips  with  young  men  friends,  years  ago, 
when  he  had  been  considered  amusing  and  entertaining.  But 
of  late  years  he  had  felt  so  heavy,  listening  to  other  person's  ac- 
counts of  efforts  and  successes;  so  helplessly  entangled  in  routine 
himself. 

His  father  had  told  him  several  weeks  ago  that  he  would 
not  lend  him  money.  Stephen  had  his  own  responsibilities; 
Rob  was  not  a  likely  help  in  time  of  trouble.  It  had  been  Lucy 
who  had  suggested  Fanny. 

He  and  Georgie  entered  the  house  quietly,  going  straight  to 
the  kitchen,  as  bare  now  as  a  schoolroom,  where  Lucy  was 
cleaning  the  stove. 

His  wife  saw,  from  his  face,  that  the  unbelievable  had  hap- 
pened. Fanny  had  refused  him.  Lucy,  her  frog-like  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  from  the  smearing  of  grease  and  the  smooches 
of  soot  on  her  face,  felt  despair  seize  her,  with  a  sort  of  nauseated 
impatience  worse  than  despair.  As  she  worked  and  planned 
for  the  last  hours  in  this  cottage,  she  had  indulged  in  dreams  of 
a  future  that  Harry's  despondent  return  rudely  dashed  to  the 
earth.  She  had  imagined  that  Harry  might  have  been  hurt  in 
the  street,  and  once  more  that  solemn  little  scene  had  been 
enacted  in  her  busy  brain;  the  respectfully  sympathetic  strange 
men,  the  alarm,  the  hurry  to  a  hospital.  Lucy  did  not  definitely 
wish  this,  she  merely  saw  it  all,  with  her  mind's  eye,  and  perhaps 
even  then  she  saw  nothing  worse — nothing  half  as  hard,  for 
Harry,  as  this  return  to  her  empty-handed. 

"Fanny "  she  began,  sitting  on  her  heels. 

"She  was  awfully  nice,"  Harry  said  slowly.  "I  told  her  how 
we  were,  that  we  had  to  get  out  of  this  house  to-morrow,  and 
that — unfortunately,  I  had  nothing  in  sight  but  that  Elkins 
job " 

"Don't  speak  of  that  Elkins  job!"  Lucy  said,  venting  a 
little  of  her  soreness  and  disappointment  and  shame  upon  the 
words.  Elkins  was  a  plumber  who  had  asked  Harry  to  help 
him  in  his  humble,  cluttered,  and  odorous  shop.  Harry's 
sneaking  fondness  for  machinery  had  leaped  into  life  at  this 
obscure  prospect,  and  he  had  even  eagerly  defended,  to  Lucy, 
the  salary  of  sixty-five  dollars  a  month. 

"So  then  she  said  she  didn't  have  it,  Lucy " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  241 

Lucy  swallowed,  looked  at  the  black  rag  in  her  grained  and 
greasy  hand,  gave  the  stove  door  an  angry  touch. 

"That's  a  lie!'31  she  said  bitterly. 

"I  mean  she  didn't  have  it  now,  Luce."  Harry's  big  boy  had 
come  about  the  table  now,  and  put  his  arms  tight  about  him,  and 
was  doubled  awkwardly  into  his  lap. 

"I'm  sorry,  Pa,"  Georgie  said,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"Never  mind,"  Harry  said,  hugging  him.     "Father's  boy!" 

"She  said  that  she  would  let  me  know  if  she  could  get  it, 
Luce,"  he  added,  timidly,  to  his  wife. 

"Let  you  know!  Does  she  know  that  we  have  to  move  out 
of  here  to-morrow?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  told  her  that.  She — you  know  Fanny,  Luce. 
She  said  that  she  couldn't  put  her  hand  right  on  it,  to-day." 

"I  told  you  to  go  to  her  last  week!" 

"I  know  you  did.  I  know  you  did.  I  blame  myself  for 
that,"  Harry  said  wearily  and  anxiously. 

Lucy  brushed  back  a  fallen  lock  of  her  graying  hair,  with 
a  bent  wrist.  She  came  to  take  Georgie's  chair,  and  sank  into  it 
with  a  slow  movement  and  wincing  face  that  indicated  sore 
muscles.  She  had  been  angry  with  Harry  before,  she  had  been 
voluble  only  this  morning.  But  now  the  situation  was  too  seri- 
ous for  that.  As  well  scold  him  if  he  and  she  and  Georgie  had 
been  adrift  on  a  raft  in  mid-ocean.  Matters  were  desperate 
now,  and  the  question  of  responsibility  was  a  minor  one.  They 
had  almost  no  food,  no  money,  no  prospect  of  food  or  money, 
no  home.  She  was  physically  weary,  and  mentally  exhausted 
with  desperate  and  futile  planning.  Nothing  of  all  her  schemes 
had  materialized;  the  last  years  had  been  a  steadily  descending 
scale  of  pinching,  contriving,  eliminating,  self-denial.  Lucy 
was  too  tired,  too  discouraged,  to  talk.  She  merely  regarded  her' 
husband  with  dull  eyes. 

"Mama,  did  you  go  to  see  that  lady  at  the  kindergarden  this 
morning?"  Georgie  questioned.  Harry  looked  interested,  but 
Lucy  merely  compressed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head.  The 
thought  of  the  young  kindergarten  teacher,  happy,  confident, 
busy,  paid  for  her  delightful  work,  made  her  feel  bitter.  She 
had  thought  there  might  be  some  branch  of  that  work  that 
would  suit  her,  Lucy  Crabtree,  but  pretty  Miss  Williams  had 
smiled  a  negative,  There  was  a  course  of  training  back  of  all 
this  merry  playing  with  sticks  and  paper  mats.     She  could  only 


242    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

give  Lucy  the  address  of  the  classes  in  which  she  had  been 
trained  herself.  She  knew  that  the  classes  were  already  crowded. 
Everybody,  Miss  Williams  had  concluded  with  a  laugh,  seemed 
to  want  to  get  into  kindergarten  work. 

Lucy  had  walked  back  past  the  county  hospital  and  had 
glanced  at  the  old  wrecks  of  humanity,  sitting  blinking  in  the 
mild  September  sunlight.  They  were  past  feeling,  these  bald, 
blinking  old  women  in  bundled  woolens,  these  clean,  lean,  silent 
old  men,  past  shame,  past  hope,  even  past  love.  They  only 
hated  cold,  and  meat  too  tough  for  old  jaws,  and  the  occasional 
epidemic  that  locked  the  visitors'  door;  they  loved  sunshine  and 
tobacco  and  bread  puddings. 

Not  one  of  them  of  her  type,  or  Harry's,  or  within  twenty 
years  of  their  ages,  Lucy's  fevered  thoughts  had  decided.  Nelly 
was  married:  Alice  lived  in  the  training  school  for  nurses.  But 
what  was  going  to  happen  to  Harry  and  herself,  and  poor  little 
defrauded  Georgie,  whose  father  had  had  his  pony  and  his 
private  teacher  at  Georgie's  age?  Would  they  starve  to  death? 
Would  they  beg  in  Market  Street?  What  did  happen  to  people 
when  they  came  face  to  face  with  the  last  wall? 

If  Fanny  tided  them  over  this  particular  crisis,  as  Fanny  of 
course  would,  Lucy's  thoughts  had  travelled  optimistically,  then 
positively  she  would  prevent  any  such  happening  again.  Georgie 
must  get  a  position,  at  fifteen,  poor  little  chap,  and  Alice's 
nursing  course  would  end  some  day,  far  away  as  that  day  now 
seemed. 

These  thoughts  had  buoyed  her  until  Harry's  return;  now 
she  felt  the  sudden  fall  to  earth  with  doubled  violence.  There 
was  nothing  ahead — nothing.  Everywhere  was  poverty,  humili- 
ation, need. 

The  day  had  been  dark,  silent;  leaves  in  her  garden  had  stirred 
restlessly  in  an  occasional  breath  of  air.  At  two  o'clock  there 
was  an  interval  of  dim  sunlight,  then  clouds,  and  now  a  light 
irregular  rain.     The  cold  kitchen  was  gloomy. 

"I  could  go  to  Pa  again,"  Harry  said,  after  awhile. 

Lucy  bit  her  lip,  considering,  then  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"You  know  that's  no  use,  Harry." 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  go  into  the  grocery!"  Georgie 
said,  eagerly.  "Driving  Ludmann's  horses  down  Howard 
Street — giddy-ap  there!"     He  guided  an  imaginary  team. 

"Don't!"  his  mother  said  irritably.     "Well,  I  suppose  we 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    243 

shan't  starve !"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "I  never  heard  of  any 
one  starving,  right  here  in  San  Francisco!" 

Harry  and  Georgie  were  hungrily  eating  bread  and  butter  at 
the  kitchen  table,  and  Harry  had  poured  himself  a  cup  of  tea.  It 
was  nearly  three  o'clock,  and  in  spite  of  Harry's  worry  and  ap- 
prehension he  thought  he  had  never  tasted  anything  so  heart- 
ening and  delicious,  after  the  long,  wet  walk.  The  mixture  of 
hot  tea  and  butter  and  spongy  bread  smelled  delightful  to  him; 
Lucy  apathetically  pushed  toward  Georgie  a  handful  of  raisins 
and  a  half-bar  of  chocolate,  unearthed  by  this  morning's  pack- 
ing. 

"There's  some  syrup  there,  Harry." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you!"  He  was  almost  tremulously  apprecia- 
tive of  her  kindness;  he  and  Georgie  took  care  to  clean  table  and 
sink  scrupulously  when  the  meal  was  over.  Lucy,  heartened 
by  a  sudden  dream,  and  with  her  packing  done,  went  out  into 
the  drizzle  resolutely,  leaving  written  directions  for  the  prepara- 
tion of  dinner.  She  could  write  menus  and  formulas  readily, 
although  she  did  not  cook  well. 

She  had  come  to  a  rapid  decision;  she  would  go  down  to  Mer- 
kle's  Employment  Agency,  and  register  as  a  companion,  or 
governess,  for  a  young  child.  Two  children,  perhaps,  but  she 
would  take  no  more.  She  could  pay  a  Japanese  boy  to  manage 
the  house  until  she  got  home,  at  seven.  Or  she  might  get  home 
at  six.  Harry  and  Georgie,  who  loved  puttering,  had  a  most 
delightful  afternoon  cooking,  cleaning,  and  packing. 

The  next  morning,  a  Saturday,  brought  no  letter  from  Fanny, 
but  Lucy  awoke  to  fresh  energy,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  the  little 
house  was  spotless,  and  Lucy  surprisingly  presentable  herself  in 
her  brushed  and  cleaned  old  dress.  Even  this  dismal  doubtful 
change  was  an  adventure,  to  Lucy.  The  grocer's  wagon  was 
to  move  their  furniture,  and  Lucy's  best  walnut  bed  and  bureau 
were  to  remain  with  the  grocer's  placid  German  wife  as  a  return. 
The  last  meal  in  the  cottage  was  not  entirely  depressed,  for  Mrs. 
Liedman  had  brought  some  fresh  eggs  as  a  little  offering  of  fare- 
well, perhaps  hoping  that  this  practical  gift  would  soften  Lucy's 
pang  of  parting  from  her  handsomest  bedroom  pieces. 

Harry  had  gone  out,  immediately  after  the  meal,  Georgie 
was  making  himself  useful  with  all  the  joyous  eagerness  of  a  child 
out  of  school,  Lucy  found  herself  unexpectedly  cheerful  in  the 
bright  fresh  sunshine.     It  was  all  uncertain  and  alarming,  true, 


244    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

but  at  least  something  was  happening,  and  Lucy  hated  routine. 
She  thought  what  a  strange  thing  it  would  be  if  Harry  should 
be  killed  in  some  street  accident  this  morning;  his  father  must 
help  them  then,  for  a  while  at  least. 

It  was  almost  noon  when  Rob,  leading  little  Bobo  by  the  hand, 
unexpectedly  appeared  at  the  gate.  Bobo  had  been  visiting 
his  grandfather,  it  appeared,  and  his  father  was  to  return  him  to 
May  that  afternoon.  But  it  was  such  nice  weather,  and  Rob 
had  understood  that  the  Harrys  were  moving,  and  thought  he 
might  be  of  use 

"We  are  moving,  this  minute,"  Lucy  said,  welcoming  him 
into  the  bare  dining  room.  "Sit  down  on  that  box,  Robert. 
Yes,  they're  packing  the  wagon  now." 

"So  I  see,"  Rob  said.  "Well,  you've  got  a  bright  day. 
Where  do  you  go?" 

Lucy  took  him  frankly  into  her  confidence.  She  had  looked 
at  a  lovely  cottage  just  renovated  in  Valencia  Street,  but  the 
rent  had  been  twenty-five  dollars — too  much.  So  they  were  go- 
ing, temporarily,  to  the  Abbotsford  Hotel,  on  Larkin  Street.  It 
was  expensive,  unfortunately,  twelve  dollars  a  week  for  the 
three,  but  it  would  be  madness  to  take  a  house  until  Harry  was 
working  again,  and  his  next  job  might  be  anywhere — in  Oak- 
land or  in  the  North  Beach  district. 

"Harry's  unlucky,"  Rob  said,  reflectively. 

"Oh — unlucky!"  Lucy  echoed.  "You" — her  frog-like  eyes 
gleamed — "you  haven't  any  idea!"  she  said. 

"Pa  knows  how  hard  up  you  are?" 

"Know  it!  Harry's  been  to  him  four  times  this  year.  At 
first  he  did  help,  a  little.  But  the  last  time  he  told  Harry  that 
any  man  who  had  to  borrow  money  for  his  living  expenses  hadn't 
common  sense,"  Lucy  said  bitterly.  "Easy  to  say!"  she  added, 
with  scorn. 

"The  old  man  made  his  own  way,  and  it's  a  sort  of  religion 
with  him,"  Rob  observed.  "You  couldn't  go  down  to  visit 
Nelly  on  her  ranch  for  awhile,  Lucy,  and  take  it  easy?" 

She  flushed,  shut  her  lips. 

"Nelly  and  Rudy  haven't  any  too  much,"  she  admitted  re- 
luctantly. 

"I  see!"  Rob  mused.  Georgie,  who  loved  children,  had  taken 
his  small  cousin  into  the  yard,  and  Bobo's  shrieks  of  joy  floated 
in  to  the  adults  as  they  talked.     Rob  listened  to  his  sister-in- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    245 

law,  with  a  troubled  face.  He  had  had  plenty  of  money  re- 
sponsibility, of  uncertainty,  himself,  but  not  on  this  pinched  and 
pitiful  scale.  He  wondered  vaguely  what  the  matter  was,  with 
Harry.  Too  gentle — too  unambitious.  He  and  Lucy  ex- 
changed dubious  syllables. 

"  But  if  you  get  all  settled  at  the  Abbotsford " 

"Oh,  I  shall  hardly  unpack!     We  have  to  go  somewhere " 

"How  much  actual  money  has  Harry,  Lucy?,, 

"Actual  money!  Gracious  goodness,  we  haven't  one  dollar — 
not  one." 

"But  for  heaven's  sake — how  do  you  propose  to  pay  board?" 
Rob  ejaculated. 

Lucy  looked  at  him  with  a  sensible,  frank  smile. 

"Tell  me  what  you  would  advise,  Rob,"  she  said. 

Rob  was  silenced;  truly  it  was  hard  to  say. 

He  was  enjoying  this  talk  surprisingly.  His  first  impulse, 
upon  seeing  the  sidewalk  littered  with  chairs  and  boxes,  had 
been  to  go  quietly  away  again,  without  adding  anything  to  the 
confusion  of  the  scene.  He  had  had  no  real  idea  of  Harry's 
straits,  merely  imagining  his  brother's  employment  as  some- 
thing humble,  and  his  pay  as  low.  Harry  had  said,  in  some 
casual  meeting,  that  he  and  Lucy  had  to  move,  he  had  explained 
none  of  the  appalling  difficulties  of  the  move. 

This  hour  of  frank  talk  with  a  woman  who  was  still  attractive 
had  a  surprising  interest  for  Rob.  He  and  his  sister  Fanny  had 
never  been  congenial;  May  had  always  exasperated  and  amused 
him  in  true  older-sister  fashion.  But  Lucy  was  clever,  comfort- 
able, full  of  friendly  confidence,  devoid  of  the  affectations 
that  made  both  May  and  Fanny  so  absurd.  He  had  missed 
women,  since  Ella  died,  missed  even  her  austere  and  chilly 
femininity.  He  thought  now  that  Harry  had  at  least  been  for- 
tunate in  his  wife,  this  fine  square  capable  creature  ought  to 
have  made  a  man  of  him  if  any  one  could.  There  was  gray  in 
her  crisp  dark  hair,  and  youth  was  gone  from  her  healthy, 
pleasant  face,  but  she  radiated  a  strangely  feminine  appeal. 
Rob  noticed  the  fineness  of  her  strong  wrist,  the  whiteness  of  the 
nape  of  her  neck.  He  was  so  bewildered  by  his  own  sudden 
interest  in  her  that  he  lost  one  of  her  brisk,  definite  remarks. 

"I  only  said  'Here  comes  Harry,  now!'"  she  repeated,  when 
he  asked  her. 

Harrv  came  in  flushed  and  radiant.     He  retailed  his  adven- 


246    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tures  boyishly.  Elkins  had  repeated  his  offer,  asking  Harry  to 
take  care  of  the  bicycle-mending  end  of  the  business.  Every- 
body was  beginning  to  ride  "safeties,"  and  Elkins  sometimes 
had  six  or  seven  to  mend  in  a  day.  Harry  understood  them 
perfectly,  was  confident  that  he  could  hold  that  job.  And  he 
would  be  interested,  too,  he'd  bet  "any  money" — poor  Harry, 
who  had  not  a  cent — that  he  could  ride  one  of  those  low,  two- 
wheeled  ones  the  second  time  he  tried. 

Well !    And  if  he  took  this  job,  there  was  a  big  room 

right  over  Elkins'  shop,  a  nice  room,  too,  he  had  gone  up  to  see 
it,  and  it  was  a  daisy,  sunny,  and  big,  and  with  a  back  room 
where  there  was  running  water  and  a  stove.  How  about  it? 
How  about  it?  Elkins  would  let  them  rent  it  for  six  dollars  a 
month.  If  they  furnished  it,  and  sold  what  furniture  it  would 
not  hold,  and  Elkins  advanced  them  ten  dollars  on  the  first 
month's  salary — how  about  it?  He  wished  Luce  had  seen  the 
place;  it  was  in  a  little  alley  near  Sixteenth  Street,  awfully 
nice. 

"Look  here,  Harry,"  Rob  said,  as  Lucy  was  silent,  "that's 
all  very  well,  helping  a  plumber,  but  it  don't  sound  to  me  like  a 
very  good  job  for  one  of  Pa's  sons.  You're  a  Crabtree,  after  all, 
and  your  wife's  not  the  kind  of  woman  to  drag  into  an  alley  in 
Mission  Street " 

Harry's  face  fell  and  he  looked  anxious  and  ashamed. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Lucy?"  he  asked,  after  a  silence. 

"I  feel  as  I  have  always  felt,  Harry,"  Lucy  said  slowly, 
"that  you  could  get  an  office  position  if  you  wanted  it  badly 
enough ! " 

"I  know,"  Harry  said  quickly,  and  was  silent. 

"What  would  your  idea  of  Georgie  be,  in  this  delightful  ar- 
rangement?" Lucy  said,  presently. 

"Oh,  he'd  be  with  us!"  Harry  looked  alarmed.  "Wouldn't 
he?"  he  asked  uneasily. 

"Over  a  plumber's  shop,  in  an  alley  off  Sixteenth  Street," 
Lucy  said  simply. 

"Now  look  here,  folks,"  Rob  said,  briskly,  "that  won't  do — 
you  see  you  can't  do  that!  Why,  Harry,  an  office  is  the  only 
place  for  you,  and  we'll  find  you  something — you'll  see!  When 
Pa  dies,  there'll  be  the  Santa  Clara  place,  and  you  and  Lucy 
can  buy  a  home — make  a  fresh  start.     Buck  up 1" 

There  was  an  interruption;  the  two  boys  came  in  from  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  247 

garden.  Bobo  held  a  starch-box  in  his  stretched  little  arms, 
and  in  the  starch-box  was  a  pink-eyed,  lop-eared  baby  rabbit, 
with  a  busy,  quivering  little  pink  nose.  A  strong  odour  of  de- 
cayed cabbage  leaves  hung  about  him. 

"It's  a  raddit!"  said  Bobo,  solemn  with  awe  and  utter  rap- 
ture, "and  yis  boy  gived  him  to  me,  and  now  he's  mine,  and  he's 
my  raddit,  and  I  can  have  him  all  for  my  own,  because  he  gived 
him  to  me!" 

t-t," Darling,  your  last  rabbit!"  Lucy  said  to  her  son.  Rob 
read  the  faces  quickly,  Georgie's  noble  with  generosity,  Lucy 
hesitant,  Harry  proud  of  his  boy. 

"Look  here,  Bobo,"  Bob  said,  fondly,  "you  don't  want  to 
take  Cousin  George's  last  rabbit,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  yes— please,  Uncle  Bob!"  Georgie  said  eagerly,  "I  want 
him  to  have  it!" 

Bob  hesitated,  looking  at  his  young  nephew. 

"That's  awfully  nice  of  you,  George,"  he  said.  And  Harry 
added:  "The  two  Crabtree  boys,  hey,  Bob?  Just  as  you  and  I 
used  to  be  years  ago?" 

"You  were  always  darned  good  to  me,  I  know  that,"  Bob  said, 
smiling;  "do  you  like  that  little  feller  of  mine,  George?"  he  asked. 
"Look  here,  Bobo,  aren't  you  going  to  thank  George  for  your 
rabbit?     What  are  you  going  to  call  that  rabbit,  hey?" 

"Sank  you  for  dish  raddit,"  Bobo  said  hastily  and  firmly. 

"George "  his  father  prompted. 

"Gorsh,"  little  Bobo  echoed,  with  a  grin  at  his  own  limita- 
tions. 

"Lucy,"  Rob  said,  taking  out  his  purse.  "I  know  you  and 
Harry  won't  mind  my  helping  you  out — just  for  a  few  weeks. 
See  here — that'll  carry  you  for  a  couple  of  weeks  anyway " 

Strangely  feminine,  strangely  appealing  for  all  her  squarely 
built  body  and  her  graying  hair,  she  looked  at  the  gold  pieces, 
flushed,  took  them  into  her  small,  workworn  palm.  There  was 
no  protest,  no  hysteria,  no  sham. 

"I  hope  you'll  want  something  we  can  do  for  you  some  day, 
Rob  Crabtree!"  she  said  quietly.  The  words  stayed  with  him 
hearteningly  all  day.  He  felt  that  he  had  never  invested  money 
more  wisely. 

"But  father,"  murmured  Georgie  into  Harry's  ear,  as  they 
jolted  comfortably  across  Larkin  and  Polk  Streets  to  their  new 
home,  "if  Uncle  Rob  hadn't  given  Mama  that  money,  would  we 


248    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

have  gone  to  live  over  Elkins',  and  would  I  have  driven  the 
grocery  wagon?" 

"  A  grocery  wagon  isn't  a  very  good  place  for  a  boy  your  age, 
sonny,"  Harry  said  smiling.  But  he  stifled  a  dream  of  their 
settling,  so  comfortably,  so  obscurely,  into  the  big  room  and  the 
little  room,  of  his  running  out  with  Georgie  to  buy  chops  and 
bread  and  eggs,  of  his  going  down  to  work  the  next  day,  per- 
fectly confident,  for  the  first  time  in  his  fifty  years,  that  he  was 
equal  to  the  demand  that  life  would  make  upon  him. 

Their  room  at  the  Abbotsford,  an  immense  wooden  barrack 
of  a  building,  occupying  a  whole  enormous  lot,  was  large,  shabby, 
streaming  with  afternoon  sunlight.  It  had  a  bed  and  a  cot  and 
a  bureau  and  shabby  worn  upholstered  chairs  with  gray-green 
tassels  on  them.  The  bay  window  was  curtained  in  clean, 
darned  Nottingham  lace,  they  could  look  out  toward  Van  Ness 
Avenue,  rapidly  filling  with  handsome  homes,  and  see  the  little 
Polk  Street  cable  car  turn  sharply  into  Pacific  Avenue.  Out- 
side their  rooms  were  long  halls,  numbered  doors,  an  occasional 
door  with  "Bath"  painted  on  it.  Georgie  had  to  guide  his 
father  and  mother  to  the  stairs;  they  were  always  confused  by 
the  passages  and  turnings. 

Lucy  loved  the  novelty,  the  luxury  of  having  no  cooking  or 
dish-washing  to  do,  the  meals  in  the  big  barn-like  dining  room. 
They  were  all  in  good  spirits  over  pork  chops  and  cottage  pud- 
ding, at  half-past  six,  and  Harry  heard  his  wife  telling  a  casual 
woman  acquaintance  in  the  hall  that  there  was  something  about 
the  place  that  reminded  her  of  London. 

A  few  days  later  Bob  sent  him  with  a  letter  to  a  wholesale 
stationery  house  in  Market  Street,  and  Harry  was  given  a  stool 
at  a  desk  under  a  dropped  gas  light,  three  enormous  ledgers,  a 
sixth  part  of  a  small  inside  office,  and  seventy  dollars  a  month. 

They  stayed  on  at  the  Abbotsford,  Georgie  travelling  half 
across  the  city  to  the  Polytechnic  High  School,  Harry  walking 
almost  a  mile  home  every  night.  Lucy  said  that  she  intended 
to  find  a  little  flat,  but  the  weeks  went  by,  and  winter  came,  and 
they  made  no  move. 

Then  calamity  found  them  again,  this  time  in  a  new  form. 
Lucy  had  a  terrifying  bout  with  inflammatory  rheumatism,  and 
there  was  a  doctor's  bill;  a  terrible  seventy-two  dollars  to  find 
somewhere. 

Dosing  with  salicylates  recklessly,  over-exerting  and  over- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    249 

eating,  yet  Lucy  miraculously  did  recover  in  body,  but  in  spirit 
she  was  not  the  same.  She  had  never  been  ill  before,  and  it 
frightened  her  to  think  how  quickly  ruin  would  be  upon  them, 
should  she  become  chronically  crippled.  This  was  the  last 
straw,  this  was  too  much  for  her  courage.  She  had  always 
thought  of  herself  as  invincible,  whatever  the  others  might  be. 
She  was  suffering  from  the  effect  of  pain,  poison,  and  strong 
medicines,  although  she  did  not  know  it.  She  only  knew  that 
she  had  lain  there,  in  that  shabby  hotel  room,  helpless,  and 
might  some  day  lie  there  helpless  again.  It  had  come  from 
nowhere,  this  illness,  it  had  gone  with  equal  mysteriousness,  it 
was  like  an  ugly  and  haunting  dream  to  her.  Lucy,  like  all  the 
women  of  her  day,  had  more  than  one  friend  who  was  chained  to 
a  bed  for  life.  There  were  several  types  of  illness  that  were 
regretfully  described  as  incurable;  several  men  and  women,  even 
among  her  own  friends,  were  patient  domestic  burdens  for  the 
term  of  all  their  days  and  nights.  The  thought,  coupled  with 
her  constant  money  worry,  was  utterly  insufferable  to  her. 

She  limped  back  to  health  and  life,  began  to  walk  abroad  into 
the  wet  spring  sunshine,  began  to  theorize  again.  Warmth  and 
green  found  out  the  Abbotsford  garden,  Lucy  liked  to  sit  on 
a  bench,  wrapped  in  a  crocheted  shawl,  and  bask  sleepily  in 
the  sun. 

April  came,  with  twenty-five  wet  days  in  a  row,  and  then 
Harry  had  pneumonia.  He  had  not  been  eating  well,  he  had 
had  broken  nights  with  Lucy,  he  had  alternated  wet  car  trips 
with  the  close  heat  of  the  office,  and  when  he  collapsed  it  seemed 
for  several  days  that  he  would  never  be  well. 

Rob  was  away,  but  Fanny  came,  so  moved  by  the  thought  of 
her  younger  brother's  desperate  state  that  she  told  Lucy  at  the 
door,  in  parting,  that  she  must  not  hesitate  to  ask  for  anything 
that  Fanny  could  do. 

"You  know  I  had  arranged  to  lend  poor  Harry  some  money, 
just  before  you  moved  here,"  Fanny  said,  wiping  her  eyes  and 
nose  violently;  "but  then  Bob  told  me  that  you  were  all  right, 
and  I  knew  that  Harry  wouldn't  want  to  involve  himself  if  it 
wasn't  necessary.  But  I  had  arranged  it,  went  downtown  twice 
about  it,  and  all  that!" 

"You're  awfully  good,  Fanny,"  Lucy  said,  perforce,  "and  I'll 
remember  it!  You  see  my  doctor  bill  isn't  paid,  even,  and 
now  there's  this  fresh  expense!" 


250  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Oh,  well,  doctors  are  accustomed  to  waiting!"  Fanny  said 
hardily. 

"  I  know.  But  with  the  expenses  here — you  see  we  pay  twelve 
dollars  a  week " 

"Well,  with  that  I  had  nothing  to  do!"  Fanny  said  crisply, 
flushing  and  laughing  a  little  as  she  tossed  her  head;  "you 
moved  in  here,  Lucy,  you  must  have  known  what  it  would  cost 
you!  Pa  sent  his  love,"  she  added,  with  a  dexterous  change  of 
the  subject,  "  and  he  said  he  would  come,  only  it's  so  wet.  Poor 
Pa,  I'm  afraid  his  going  about  is  pretty  well  ended,  now.  He's" — 
Fanny  unfurled  her  umbrella,  shook  her  head — "he's  failing 
fast!"  she  said.     "Well,  Pa's  eighty,  you  know." 

"Not  quite,  is  he?" 

"Seventy-nine!" 

"Do  you  see  the  trouble  poor  old  man  Baker  got  into?"  Lucy 
said,  reminded  suddenly  of  one  of  old  Reuben's  contemporaries. 
"That  Pringle  woman,  you  know,  that  housekeeper  of  his — 
didn't  you  see  that  she  is  suing  him  for  breach  of  promise  ?  They 
say  that  his  children  are  perfectly  frantic,  and  last  night's  Post 
said  that  there  is  another  woman,  from  Humboldt  county  some- 
where, who  says  that  she  is  his  wife  and  has  four  children!" 

Yes,  Fanny  had  seen  it,  of  course,  characterized  it  as  perfect 
nonsense.  Lucy  wondered  why  she  seemed  so  pale  and  acted 
so  strangely;  hitting  her  nose  violently  as  she  dismissed  the  sub- 
ject. Watching  her  pick  her  way  along  the  wet  street,  Lucy 
presently  sighed,  shut  the  door,  and  went  upstairs.  She  had 
seen  Fanny  suddenly  stop  short  in  the  rain,  as  if  arrested  by 
some  paralyzing  thought,  and  she  mused  about  it,  as  she  sat 
beside  the  only  half-conscious  Harry,  in  the  drab,  dilapidated 
room. 

The  rain  fell — fell.  Georgie  was  lying  on  the  floor,  reading 
about  the  great  World's  Fair.  Alice  had  sent  a  message  that 
she  would  come  to  spend  her  free  afternoon  and  evening  with 
them;  Lucy  wondered  if  the  head  nurse  were  being  any  more 
reasonable,  if  the  lessons  that  Alice  almost  despaired  of  learning 
were  less  hard. 

"Mama,  would  it  disturb  Father  if  I  read  you  about  this 
Ferris  wheel?"  Georgie  said,  over  a  "Chronicle  World's  Fair 
Album,"  purchased  by  himself  for  seven  coupons  cut  from  the 
week's  newspapers  and  ten  cents. 

"I  don't  think  I  would,  Georgie." 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    251 

"Mama,  will  Father  be  able  to  get  back  to  the  office  by  the 
first?''  The  first  of  the  following  month  had  been  the  date 
generously  set  by  Harry's  employers  as  their  limit  in  holding 
open  his  position. 

"Sh-sh!"  Lucy  warned  him,  glancing  apprehensively  toward 
the  bed.  She  suspected  that  it  might  be  many  weeks  before 
Harry  recovered  sufficiently  to  make  any  effort  again.  But  she 
knew  that  money  was  worrying  him,  even  in  his  stupor.  He 
muttered  of  bills,  of  Georgie' s  shoes  and  her  laundry  bill.  They 
owed  Rob  a  hundred  dollars,  and  what  to  Lucy's  idea  was  worse, 
she  had  descended  to  the  humiliation  of  helping  overworked  Mrs. 
Saunders  in  the  hotel,  helping  with  marketing,  marking  linen, 
counting  stores.  It  made  that  harassed  and  complaining  woman 
lenient  where  overdue  board  was  concerned,  grateful  instead  of 
exacting.  But  how  long  could  matters  continue  in  this  condi- 
tion? 

After  this  crisis  Georgie  must  get  a  job.  There  was  no  help  for 
it.  One  May  night  he  danced  home  reporting  that  the  man  in 
the  livery  stable  would  pay  him  #30  a  month  for  washing  car- 
riages and  harnessing.  Harry  was  sitting  up  now,  but  Lucy 
had  not  told  him  yet  that  the  job  with  the  stationery  firm  was 
filled  by  someone  else  long  ago.  She  let  the  exultant  Georgie 
kiss  her  over  bitterly  starting  tears,  and  on  closed  eyes,  and  told 
herself  that  it  would  not  be  forever. 

This  same  evening  Bob  came  in,  Lucy,  shabby,  quiet,  hope- 
less, turned  him  over  to  Harry,  who  was  sitting  up  in  a  rocker, 
weak  and  white,  but  beginning  to  be  interested  in  life.  Bob  had 
been  out  of  town  for  several  weeks;  he  showed  a  somewhat  awk- 
ward and  puzzled  sympathy:  things,  he  said  vaguely,  ought 
never  to  have  gotten  to  this  state. 

"I  was  thinking  about  something,  Lucy — wish  I'd  thought 
of  it  before!"  Bob  said.  Lucy,  darning,  hardly  glanced  at  him 
with  her  passive  smile.  "Here's  what  I  was  thinking,"  Bob 
said.  "You  see,  there's  all  Ella's  stuff,  in  storage;  I  never  shall 
marry  again!" 

Lucy  was  interested  now,  she  looked  at  him  keenly,  with 
suspended  needle. 

"Then  there's  Bobo,"  Bob  resumed,  locking  his  big  hands 
and  watching  them,  hung  loosely  between  his  knees.  "He's 
too  far  away  from  me,  at  May's — I  never  see  him.  And  then, 
I  want  a  home.     I'm  sick  of  drifting  about:  and  if  I  tie  up  too 


252    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tight  with  Fan,  why  then  when  Pa  drops  off  she'll  think  Fm 
bound  to  stay  on  in  that  damn  house " 

Lucy  laughed  out  loud,  and  Harry's  thin  and  colourless  face 
suddenly  brightened  at  the  sound. 

"Fan  doesn't  want  Bobo  in  any  case — said  so,"  Bob  contin- 
ued. "So  this  is  what  I  was  thinking.  You  were  speaking  of 
a  house  you  saw  in  Larkin  Street  to-day — twenty  dollars.  That's 
near  Fan,  and  yet,  if  you  and  Harry  and  I  took  it,  and  you  took 

Bobo  in "  He  hesitated,  Lucy  did  not  speak.     "You  think 

it  over,"  Bob  said,  flushing  a  little  uncomfortably,  "maybe  you'd 
rather  not.  Maybe  you  and  Harry  would  rather  see  what  else 
turns  up " 

Lucy  was  sitting  near  him;  now  she  stretched  a  firm,  square 
hand  out  and  laid  it  on  his  arm.  The  friendly  touch  thrilled 
Rob,  who  had  been  lonelier  even  than  he  realized. 

"You  mean  you "  She  stopped. 

Harry  was  still  weak;  now  the  tears  wet  his  face  suddenly, 
and  he  tried  to  laugh  at  his  brother,  shaking  his  head. 

"Oh,  no,  old  boy!"  he  faltered.  "We'll  pull  out  of  this  some- 
how.    It's  too  much -" 

Bob  was  genuinely  embarrassed;  he  had  had  no  idea  of  their 
straits. 

"It's  a  favour  to  me,  I  tell  you!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  not!"  Lucy  said,  quite  frankly  crying  through  her 
laughter.  "No — no — no!"  And  with  a  breaking  voice,  she 
put  her  sewing  suddenly  aside,  and  pressing  the  fingers  of  one 
work-worn  hand  tight  into  her  cheek,  to  control  the  trembling 
muscles  of  her  face,  she  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
But  Bob  saw  her  suddenly  raise  both  hands  to  her  face,  and  saw 
the  glitter  of  tears  between  her  fingers.  He  got  up;  it  was  very 
sweet  to  him  to  stop  her  in  her  restless  walk,  and  to  feel  her  cling 
to  him  just  a  little  in  her  break-down. 

Presently  she  was  business-like;  stern  and  determined  over 
new  plans.  Harry  should  go  to  Nelly  for  a  holiday,  she  and 
Bob  and  Georgie  should  move  into  the  wonderful  Larkin  Street 
house;  Bobo  should  play  in  the  sunny  back  yard  all  day  long, 
and  when  Harry  came  back  there  would  be  time  enough  to  talk 
of  employment  again. 

Bob  watched  her,  more  pleased  with  the  prospect  than  he  had 
been  with  any,  for  a  long  time.  He  had  been  lonely,  part  of 
the  time  in  Fanny's  uncomfortable  house,  part  of  the  time  in 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  253 

boarding  houses.  He  wanted  his  child  near  him.  He  wanted 
companionship  for  himself,  a  place  at  some  table,  the  feeling 
that  somebody  missed  him  when  he  was  away,  cared  to  hear 
his  opinion  over  the  evening  paper.  This  arrangement  promised 
well  for  both  Bobo  and  himself.  The  child  would  have  the 
kindly  older  cousin  to  watch  him,  he  would  be  among  friends. 
And  for  Bob's  self  there  would  be  his  brother,  and  the  friendship 
of  this  oddly  discontented,  powerful,  strangely  attractive 
woman.  He  believed  her  to  be  a  remarkably  capable  person. 
She  would  talk  with  him  sometimes,  pouring  coffee  over  a  late 
breakfast  table,  she  would  keep  him  in  touch  with  May  and  Fan 
with  none  of  the  present  annoyances  of  association  with  them. 

The  next  day  he  took  her  to  see  the  Larkin  Street  house, 
and,  almost  bewildered  with  felicity,  Lucy  heard  him  actually 
rent  it,  actually  bespeak  the  good  offices  of  butcher  and  grocer, 
in  Polk  Street.  To  her  the  six  rooms,  sunshine  lying  in  oblongs 
upon  their  dusty,  empty  floors,  the  closets,  the  pantry  and  bath- 
room, seemed  a  veritable  kingdom.  She  took  Alice  over  it, 
explaining,  praising.  Bob  gave  her  the  freedom  of  the  stor- 
age room  in  which  Ella's  things  were  stored;  they  went  there 
together,  after  seeing  Harry  off  for  Nelly  and  Canfield;  life 
flowed  gloriously  in  Lucy's  veins  again.  She  was  happy,  busy, 
with  money  in  her  purse  and  plans  in  her  restless  brain  once 
more. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NELLY  met  her  father  at  the  station,  in  a  mud-spattered 
surrey,  drawn  by  a  lean  bay  mare.  She  was  a  little 
faded,  eager-faced,  but  always  pretty,  only  the  fairy  gold 
of  her  hair  reminding  him  of  the  old  butterfly  Nelly.  Beside 
her  on  the  seat  a  slender,  exquisite  two-year-old  girl,  in  a  colour- 
less apron  and  a  shabby  tight  red  coat,  was  wedged,  and  a  fat, 
handsome  baby  boy  was  held  by  a  strap. 

"Kiss  Grandpa,  and  get  in  the  back,  Hildegarde,"  Nelly 
said,  leaning  over  for  an  affectionate  kiss  from  herself  to  the 
beaming  Harry.  "Papa,  will  you  take  Brother  on  your  lap? 
Don't  cry,  Brother!  No — that's  Grandpa.  That's  dear 
Grandpa  come  to  see  us!" 

The  horse  started  with  a  great  jerking  of  loose  straps  and 
shafts;  they  splashed  through  puddles  that  caught  pale  sheets  of 
the  blue  sky  in  their  brown  borders.  The  little  village  was 
bathed  in  heavenly  warmth  and  sunshine,  although  such  trees  as 
the  surrey-top  touched,  on  the  long  road  home,  sent  down  heavy 
splashing  of  water  upon  its  occupants.  Harry  gasped  with 
pleasure  and  could  only  shake  his  head  at  the  vistas  through 
fresh  green:  the  mustard  tops  and  wild  lilac,  the  fruit-blossoms 
below  them. 

If  Nelly  knew  that  life  had  changed  her  sadly,  she  showed 
no  immediate  consciousness  of  it.  She  talked  along  naturally 
and  spontaneously,  explaining  that  Rudy  had  driven  three 
calves  over  to  Martinez,  and  might  have  to  go  to  Contra  Costa 
for  his  tree  spray  before  he  returned. 

Hildegarde  was  a  friendly  little  soul,  with  blue  eyes  and  fly- 
away gold  hair,  and  a  little  upturned  nose  that  needed  constant 
attention  and  rarely  got  any.  Brother  was  apathetic,  heavy, 
silently  terrified  of  his  grandfather,  silently  letting  great  tears 
fall  from  the  solemn  eyes  he  fixed  upon  Harry.  Hildegarde 
hung  on  the  back  of  the  seat,  conversing  sociably. 

"Papa,  you'll  find  us  very  shabby,  we've  been  meaning  to 

254 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  255 

paint  for  years,"  Nelly  said,  bustling  about  the  surrey,  when 
they  stopped  at  the  cottage.  "  But — let  Mama  wipe  your  nose, 
Hildegarde,  and  don't  be  so  naughty!  She  hates  any  one  to 
touch  her,"  Nelly  interrupted  herself  to  apologize,  as  the  child 
ducked  her  mustard-blossom  head  and  emerged  from  the  ordeal 
with  reddened  nose  and  suddenly  tearful  eyes,  "but  they  always 
have  colds  all  winter!  Run  along  now,  Hildegarde,  Mama 
doesn't  want  those  dirty  shoes  in  the  house.  He  goes  in  his 
coop,"  Nelly  added,  carrying  the  heavy  boy  around  the  house 
to  an  actual  coop  under  a  shabby  willow,  "get  him  his  pacifier, 
Hildegarde,  or  he'll  cry!  Now  come  in,  Pa,  I'll  take  you  the 
kitchen  way,  for  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  stranger  of  you! — 
He'll  stop  crying  in  a  minute,"  Nelly  added,  of  her  baby.  "Sit 
down,  Papa,"  and  she  laid  her  flushed,  perspiring  forehead 
against  his  cheek,  and  gave  him  a  hug  even  before  she  got  her 
breath,  "  and  tell  me  how  you  feel.  You  were  real  sick,  weren't 
you?" 

Harry  was  amazed  at  the  facility  with  which  she  managed 
the  kitchen:  lighting  a  wood  fire  in  the  cracked  old  stove,  manip- 
ulating jars  and  bottles,  flashing  into  the  pantry  for  eggs  and 
butter.  The  dingy,  grease-stained  kitchen  reeked  of  stale  food, 
the  salty,  oily  smell  of  a  churn,  the  spicy,  soft  odour  of  confined 
apples.  It  was  not  actually  in  disorder,  although  a  red  table- 
cloth and  a  big  brown  glaze  sugar  bowl  were  evidently  fixtures  on 
one  of  the  tables,  and  the  children's  walnut  high  chairs,  each 
decorated  with  a  mush-spattered  bib,  kept  their  places  at  the 
board.  Nelly's  floor  had  not  been  scrubbed  for  years,  nor  her 
stove  polished;  her  kettle  and  saucepans  were  thick  with  soot, 
yet  there  was  no  sign  of  neglected  dishes,  and  a  mush  boiler, 
soaking  on  the  range,  was  the  only  receptacle  that  was  not 
empty  and  in  its  place. 

"I  keep  my  milk  in  here  all  summer,"  Nelly  called  from  the 
parlour,  "it's  the  only  cool  place  in  the  house.  Brother  used  to 
have  his  naps  in  here,  too,  but  in  winter  I  put  him  back  in  our 
room.  I  got  a  piece  of  meat  in  town,  Pa,  but  we  won't  wait  for 
it.     You  eat  eggs,  don't  you?" 

"Anything,  darlin',"  Harry  said,  conscious  of  being  weak 
and  tired. 

She  was  uneasy  because  he  ate  so  little;  she  kept  jumping  up 
to  kiss  him  lovingly:  they  were  both  quite  unconscious  of  the 
spotted  tablecloth,  the  nearness  of  the  odorous  stove,  the  gen- 


256  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

eral  slackness  of  the  service.  After  lunch  she  dragged  a  rocker 
into  the  sunny  sweetness  of  the  yard,  and  he  was  glad  to  sink 
into  it.  The  children  were  bundled  down  for  naps  with  scant 
ceremony,  in  a  dim  bedroom,  on  an  unmade  bed,  their  little 
faces  streaked  with  food,  their  small  shoes  thick  with  door- 
yard  dust.  Nelly  whisked  through  the  dishes,  and  rolled  a 
churn  out  beside  her  father's  chair. 

"Usually  I  get  through  earlier  than  this,"  she  said,  smilingly, 
"but  to-day  I  had  to  get  them  both  cleaned  up  to  meet  you, 
and  Rudy  wasn't  here  to  harness  for  me!" 

"Hasn't  Rudy  got  a  man  to  help  him?"  Harry  asked,  a  little 
anxious  over  her  violent  breathing. 

"He  has  had  always,  of  course.  But  this  year  everything 
has  gone  so  badly  he  was  glad  enough  to  let  Pete  go;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  that  thirty  dollars  a  month  came  round  every  other 
day!  You  know  we  had  cholera  with  the  hogs  again — wasn't  it 
a  shame!"  Nelly  laughed  philosophically.  "After  I'd  nearly 
killed  myself  dragging  food  up  there  for  the  brutes!  However, 
we  did  come  out  a  little  ahead.  This  is  coming  nicely,"  Nelly 
ran  on,  "and  the  reason  that  I'm  doing  it  is  that  I  have  to  feed 
the  chickens  to-night,  since  Rudy  isn't  back.  Three  hens 
came  off  this  week — I  want  you  to  see  the  little  chicks,  Pa,  you'll 
love  them — and  I  hate  that  business  of  mixing  them  up  meal 
and  chopped  stuff,  it  comes  right  at  suppertime,  and  I  want  to 
get  you  a  good  supper!  Rudy  loves  fresh  butter  with  soda 
biscuit,  and  he  hates  me  to  let  the  cream  spoil — as  I  just  had  to, 
three  or  four  times  last  year,  when  Brother  first  came,  and  while 
the  men  were  here.  It  just  drives  Rudy  wild  to  buy  butter! 
But  Hildegarde  was  teething  and  as  cross  as  two  sticks,  and  my 
girl  left  me,  and  it  was  terribly  hot!" 

"It  keeps  you  pretty  busjr,  Nelly,"  Harry  said. 

"Oh,  Pa,  this  is  nothing!  You  ought  to  see  us  when  the 
berries  are  ripe,  and  four  or  five  men  to  feed  every  meal,  and 
perhaps  no  girl,  and  your  meat  souring,  and  a  child  fretting  and 
crying  all  day!  Well,  it  almost  drives  you  mad.  One  day 
Rudy  had  an  ulcerated  tooth,  and  he  slapped  Hildegarde — 
poor  little  tad,  I  thought  he'd  kill  her,  and  let  me  tell  you  I  went 
for  him — the  idea,  you  know,  a  big  man  to  hit  a  little  mite  of 
a  baby!"  Nelly  laughed  without  venom.  "He  was  all  heated 
up  with  pain,  and  so  much  work  to  be  done,"  she  added  mildly. 
"But  I  shan't  mind  anything  as  long  as  we  can  keep  the  place. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    257 

It's  such  a  lovely  home  for  the  children,  and  we  do  get — that 
reminds  me!" 

She  vanished  into  the  house  and  returned  carrying  a  glass  of 
rich  milk  for  Harry,  the  cream  floating  on  it  in  blots  and  cling- 
ing to  the  glass.  He  could  feel  energy  and  calm  spreading  over 
him  as  he  drank  it. 

"It's  the  way  to  live,  Nelly,"  he  said,  breathing  in  the  sweet 
summer  air  in  gratitude,  looking  from  the  climbing  rough  grade 
under  the  orchard  trees  to  the  far  blue  line  of  the  mountains. 
"That's  Diablo,  back  there,  isn't  it?  My  Lordy — Lordy — 
Lordy — it's  lovely!  I  don't  know  when  I've  had  a  holiday 
like  this.  I  wish  there  was  some  little  corner  of  the  world  like 
this  where  your  mother  and  I  could  creep  in.  I'm  planning  a 
great  lot  of  walking,"  he  added,  "over  there  beyond  that  barn, 
now,  and  up  here  backwards — where  all  that  green  is." 

"That's  the  spring.  Seems  to  me  I  dream  of  that  spring 
nights,"  said  Nelly;  "the  litigation  is  all  about  that  spring, 
you  know.  Rudy'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  He  can't  talk  much 
else.  All  is,"  she  added,  confidingly,  using  the  common  country 
phrase  that  had  sounded  as  oddly  colloquial  to  her  a  few  years 
ago  as  it  did  to  Harry  now,  "all  is,  Pa,  that,  in  a  way,  I'd  as  soon 
farm  somewheres  else  as  here.  There's  a  bunch  of  men  here, 
well,  they're  all  right,  I  guess,  but  they  aren't  good  company 
for  Rudy.  The  Bayliss  boys,  and  Dick  Billers,  and  Toady 
Cantrell — there's  a  regular  crowd  of  them  that  gather  at 
Brady's,  nights — that's  the  saloon,  you  know — and  it's  awfully 
bad  for  Rudy — there's  Brother!    Wait  a  minute!" 

She  ran  indoors,  returned  with  the  heavy  baby,  still  dusty 
and  now  wet,  rosy  and  damp  with  sleep,  ready  to  cry  with 
hunger. 

"No,  sir — you  aren't  going  to  have  ninny!"  Nelly  laughed, 
refusing  the  determined  little  hands  her  flat  breast,  and  sub- 
stituting in  Brother's  fretting  mouth  the  springy  black  nipple 
of  a  bottle  of  milk.  "I  had  to  wean  him  last  week,"  she  ex- 
plained, "I  couldn't  satisfy  him,  and  I  was  getting  so  run  down! 
There  he  is — Mama's  good  sweet  old  boy 1" 

The  baby  sucked  and  sputtered  on  the  bottle,  lying  sprawled 
luxuriously  in  her  lap,  and  she  rested,  relaxing  her  slender 
little  body  with  enjoyment.  Little  Hildegarde  stumbled  out, 
crying  vaguely,  her  face  blotched  with  sleep.  She  ate  the  un- 
touched cookies  that  Nelly  had  brought  out  with  Harry's  milk, 


258    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  finished  the  ounce  or  two  he  could  not  drink,  and  settled 
happily  down  to  play. 

"I  don't  know  where  I  got  the  name  Hildegarde,  nor  this 
feller's  name  either,"  Nelly  said,  kissing  the  baby.  "Clifford, 
we  named  him — I  sort  of  wanted  to  call  him  Cecil,  but  Rudy 
didn't  like  it.  But  I  always  loved  the  name  Hildegarde;  I 
think  it  sounds  pretty,  don't  you?  Hildegarde  and  Clifford 
Sessions.  Clifford  Cecil,  I  called  him,  because  I  hope  there 
aren't  going  to  be  any  more!"  She  laughed  and  shook  her 
head.     "I  tell  Rudy  two's  enough"  she  said. 

"You  want  to  get  your  stren'th  back,  now,  Nelly,"  Harry 
said,  timid  on  this  particular  ground. 

"Oh,  yes — there's  no  sense  in  killing  myself!  I  plan  now  to 
go  straight  ahead,  get  the  farm  paid  for,  then  paint  the  house, 
or  build,  and  maybe  when  they  are  both  in  school,  get  a  riding 
horse  and  really  begin  to  get  some  pleasure  out  of  existence!" 

"Nelly,"  Harry  said  hesitatingly,  when  she  had  bounced  the 
baby  into  his  coop  again,  carried  churn  and  butter  away,  and 
was  busily  shelling  early  peas  beside  him,  "Rudy  don't  drink, 
does  he?" 

She  frowned,  pushed  a  row  of  peas  from  the  soft  shell  with 
a  grimed  and  scarred  little  thumb. 

"No,  not  exactly,  Pa.  You  couldn't  say  that.  But  he 
wastes  a  lot  of  money  treating,  and  he'll  get  himself  mad  and 
all  worked  up  over  nothing,  and  be  late  for  meals,  or  maybe  he 
won't  come  at  all.  It  makes  me  mad,  you  know,  winter  nights, 
when  I've  been  cooped  up  here  with  the  children  all  day,  and 
then  dark'll  come,  and  no  Rudy!  Now  last  winter,  one  day, 
when  the  black  heifer  calved — it  was  her  first  calf,  and  she 
ran  way  up  into  the  hills,  and  I  was  afraid  we'd  lose  the  cow 
and  the  calf,  too,  and  Rudy  was  downtown,  I  thought  he'd  had 
to  go  to  court,  maybe,  about  the  case.  Well,  Ida  Larabee 
went  by — they're  lovely  people,  own  half  the  valley  and  she 
drove  the  children  and  me  down,  and  they  were  playing  poker — 
in  Brady's;  they'd  been  playing  all  night — and  here  they 
were,  smoking,  and  their  eyes  bloodshot,  and  the  place  smelled 
like  a  pig-pen,  and  of  course  Rudy  was  just  blazing.  We  lost 
the  calf,  too,  the  coyotes  got  it.  Well,  after  he  got  over  that, 
I  told  him  I  wasn't  going  to  stand  any  more  of  it,  and  he  was 
better  for  awhile.  But  in  winter  he  hasn't  got  enough  to  doy 
especially  if  the  pigs  die  off".     I  guess  there  isn't  a  woman  in 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    259 

the  valley  that  wouldn't  burn  Brady's  down  if  she  got  the 
chance!"  Nelly  finished,  with  the  hardy,  bitter  philosophy  that 
sat  so  strangely  on  her  slender  figure  and  small,  appealing 
face. 

Harry  watched  her  preparations  for  supper;  those  farm 
regulations  so  confusingly  new  to  the  city-dweller.  The  kero- 
sene she  slopped  into  the  fire  to  make  it  burn,  the  quarts  of 
skimmed  milk  she  poured  into  a  shapeless  and  discoloured 
bucket  for  the  pigs  and  calves,  the  curious  impression  at  once 
of  waste  and  economy  filled  him  with  surprise. 

There  was  small  poetry  now  in  Nelly's  housework.  These 
dingy  rooms  represented  to  her  a  sort  of  battlefield,  where  she 
met  hunger,  dirt,  weariness,  and  defeat  day  after  day.  Nelly 
knew  all  the  tricks  of  the  enemy,  now,  the  maddening  hinge  on 
the  stove  door,  the  grate  that  slipped,  the  ugly  bump  the  sugar 
barrel  loved  to  give  her  thigh,  the  bit  of  earth  in  the  woodshed 
that  was  slippery  from  October  to  April.  She  had  been  happy 
in  this  dingy  farm  kitchen,  she  had  been  bitter,  sad,  sick,  well, 
weary  and  energetic,  languid  and  radiant.  She  had  quarrelled 
with  Rudy  while  she  banged  and  clattered  at  this  stove,  she  had 
had  hours  of  utter  felicity  here,  when  he  was  cleaning  his  gun 
or  mending  his  traps,  and  Hildegarde  was  making  love  to  her 
father  from  her  high  chair,  and  she,  Nelly,  feeling  blithe  and 
capable,  had  been  cutting  cookies  or  rolling  pie-crust. 

Less  analytical  perhaps  even  than  the  average  woman  of  her 
time,  yet  Nelly  sometimes  vaguely  questioned  her  destiny. 
Women  bore  children,  cooked,  and  were  patient.  Men  had 
their  pleasure,  ate  well,  and  worked  off  what  tempers  they 
would  upon  wives  and  babies.  She  did  not  understand  it;  it 
did  not  seem  quite  fair.  She  had  wanted  to  marry,  all  girls 
did,  whatever  they  said.  But  she  had  not  understood  what, 
marriage  meant.  Was  there  no  way — no  nice  way — in  which 
girls  might  be  told  ?  Nelly's  disillusioned  smile  would  interrupt 
her  musing  here.  Not  much  chance  that  they  would  marry  at 
all  if  they  knew! 

Harry  dissuaded  her  from  using  the  beef  for  supper;  he 
wanted  only  the  rice  and  peas  and  the  good  hot  tea,  and  more 
of  that  wonderful  cream,  he  said.  She  promised  him  one  of 
her  own  fryers  in  a  day  or  two,  and  added  home-made  apricot 
jam  and  more  cookies  to  the  plain  meal.  She  ate  it  with  the 
baby  in  her  lap,  her  body  half  turned  toward   Hildegarde's 


z6o  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

chair.  Harry  found  the  mushy  gray  rice  delicious,  and  en- 
joyed the  family  gossip  at  the  same  time. 

"So  Tina's  minister  married  an  eastern  girl,  poor  Tina!  I 
know  she  liked  him.  They  don't  seem  very  lucky,  those 
girls,  do  they,  Pa?  Esme  was  all  worked  up  over  that  Beale 
boy,  but  nothing  came  of  it!  I'll  bet  you  Vicky  marries,  al- 
though I  know  she  felt  terribly  about  the  Tasheira  boy — what- 
ever his  name  was.  And  you  know  I  think  that  was  a  shame 
— breaking  that  up.  That's  a  wonderful  ranch  they've  got; 
— Rudy  says  the  cattle  alone  are  worth  thousands  of  dollars, 
and  with  all  those  Portuguese  and  Indians  to  help,  Vick  would 
never  have  had  our  troubles  here!" 

"Your  aunt  May  never  would  have  liked  Vicky  to  marry  a 
man  like  that — she  feels  that  the  family  is  above  that,"  Harry 
observed. 

"And  Alice  really  studying — that  seems  so  funny  to  me!" 
Nelly  ran  on.  "She  was  wonderful  here,  last  year.  I  had  a 
girl,  I  couldn't  do  much,  and  she  and  Georgie  and  I  had  such 
fun!  We  used  to  make  Rudy  come  down  to  the  creek  for 
picnics,  and  make  coffee — he  isn't  much  for  picnics,  farming 
people  aren't.  They  have  so  much  of  the  out-of-doors  that 
they  like  to  get  in,  and  shut  the  windows,  too!  I  remember, 
the  first  year,  I  used  to  make  Rudy  the  nicest  salads,  but  he 
never  ate  them.  And  cut-up  fruit,  peaches  or  berries — well, 
hired  men  wouldn't  thank  you  for  a  ton  of  them!  They  want 
pies,  and  veal  and  pork;  and  even  the  best  blackberries,  with 
thick  cream,  they  won't  eat  unless  you  make  jam  or  pudding 
of  them.  Isn't  it  funny!  Once  I  had  just  salad,  and  an 
omelette,  and  our  own  beans  and  corn,  and  Bavarian  cream 
for  dinner.  Well,  I  haven't  heard  the  last  of  that  dinner 
yet!" 

"That  don't  seem  reasonable,"  Harry  said  absently.  Hilde- 
garde,  with  jam  and  rice  hardening  on  her  cheeks,  had  fallen 
asleep,  a  sour-sweet  little  hurden,  on  his  shoulder.  The  long 
afternoon  was  deepening  swiftly  to  twilight;  Nelly  lighted  an 
odorous  kerosene  lamp  by  the  stove. 

"You  haven't  the  faintest  idea  how  I  love  to  have  you  here, 
Pa,"  she  said. 

Harry  wakened  refreshed  and  content.  He  was  in  the 
kitchen,  grinning  as  he  built  a  wood  fire,  when  Nelly  came 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    261 

yawning  out  at  seven.  When  Rudy  was  away  she  slept  as 
late  as  the  children  would,  she  said.  They  were  very  happy 
over  their  breakfast,  and  afterward  had  a  felicitous  hour  with 
the  baby  children  and  baby  chicks,  and  even  the  baby  pigs, 
in  the  barnyard.  Then  Harry  helped  her  harness,  and  they 
rattled  down  the  sweet  curving  road  to  the  village  again,  where 
Nelly  traded  new  potatoes  for  staple  groceries  at  the  store  and 
picked  Rudy  up  at  the  train.  Rudy  was  pleasantly  cordial  to 
his  guest,  kissed  his  wife,  and  embraced  both  his  children  with 
enthusiasm. 

When  they  passed  Brady's,  a  white  saloon  from  which  strong 
stale  odours  of  intoxicants  surged,  Brady  himself,  clean,  rosy, 
well-shaven,  and  aproned,  came  out. 

"Do,  Mrs.  Sessions,"  said  Brady.  "Pleased  to  see  you  again 
Mr.  Crabtree,  hope  you're  going  to  make  a  long  stay!  Say, 
listen,  Rudy — you  was  saying  this  morning " 

Rudy  had  taken  the  reins;  Brady  now  placed  a  heavy  foot 
on  the  muddy  step  of  the  surrey.  They  fell  into  low-toned 
conversation.  Nelly,  in  the  back  seat,  knew  at  once  that 
Rudy  had  reached  the  village  the  day  before. 

"Well,  sir!"  Rudy  said  heartily  to  his  father-in-law,  as  they 
rattled  away;  "Nelly  making  a  farmer  of  you?" 

"Rudy,  why'd  you  stay  with  Cantrell  over  night?"  Nelly 
demanded,  directly. 

"Who  said  I  did?"  Rudy  countered,  after  a  pause. 

"  Brady  just  said  that  you  and  he  were  talking  this  morning." 

"Oh."  He  quite  patently  abandoned  equivocation.  "Well, 
where  were  you  yesterday?  I  thought  you  were  going  to  meet 
me  yesterday?" 

"Your  train  got  in  at  half-past  ten,  and  Pa's  at  eleven,  and 
when  you  weren't  in  the  surrey,  of  course  I  thought  you  hadn't 
come!" 

"Well,  there  wasn't  much  to  do,  at  home." 

"You  said  last  week  you  were  going  to  get  the  Swede  for 
the  ploughing,"  Nelly  said,  "and  here  it  is  Thursday!" 

"I  didn't  sell  the  calves,  and  mafbe  Brady  will  take  'em, 
that's  how  much  I've  been  neglecting  the  place,"  Rudy  said, 
not  ill-temperedly.  "I  thought  maybe  your  father  had  written 
that  he  wasn't  coming  until  the  afternoon  train,  so  I  did  some 
trading,  and  by  the  time  that  train  was  in,  it  was  too  late! 
Cantrell  and  I  and  some  of  the  boys  had  a  talk,  and  I  and  he 


262    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

turned  in  early.  I  thought  maybe  I'd  walk  home,  but  my 
corn  has  been  hurting  me  some." 

"You  couldn't  drive  up  with  Bud  Larabee  last  night — oh, 
no!"  Nelly  said  stingingly.  But  as  Rudy  did  not  answer,  she 
presently  cooled  down,  outwardly  at  least,  and  called  her 
father's  attention  to  the  beauty  of  the  blossoming  valley  in 
sunlight  and  cloud  shadow.  Rudy  came  to  her  side  an  hour 
later  when  she  was  busy  among  the  delicious  odours  of  the  stove. 

"Soda  biscuit?  You're  awfully  good-natured,  Nell!"  he 
said,  putting  his  arm  about  her.  "You  aren't  cross  at  me,  are 
your 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  treat  me  awfully  mean,"  Nelly 
said  sulkily. 

"But  I  don't  mean  to,  Nelly!" 

"Ah,  that's  what  you  always  say — you  never  mean  to!  But 
I  notice  that  doesn't  stop  you  the  next  time!" 

"How  do  you  mean  next  time?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean;  you  know  that 
you'll  stay  away  playing  poker  with  those  boys  just  as  soon  as 
ever  you  want  to,  no  matter  what  you  say!"  A  tear  fell,  and 
sputtered  in  the  frying  pan. 

"Now,  look  here,"  said  Rudy,  eagerly;  "I  was  mean  last 
night,  I'll  admit  it.  But  on  my  honour,  Nelly,  I  didn't  realize 
just  how  you'd  take  it,  just  how  mean  it  would  seem.  I  wasn't 
sure  you  were  coming  down  in  the  morning,  and  then  when  I 
missed  you  I  thought,  'Oh,  well,  she  has  her  father,'  and,  as  I 
say,  I  was  talking  the  sale  of  these  three  calves  with  Brady,  and 
I  just  got  into  it!  But  now  listen,  I'll  never  do  that  again. 
You  forgive  me,  don't  you,  darling?     Ah,  Nelly,  I  love  you " 

They  clasped  arms  about  each  other,  and  Rudy  kissed  her 
with  a  deep  and  passionate  lover's  kiss.  He  released  her,  and 
they  smiled  at  each  other,  and  kissed  deeply  again. 

"You  little  devil!"  Rudy  said,  laughing  and  confused  with 
passion. 

They  started  apart  as  Harry  came  in,  and  he  joined  in  their 
laughter,  well  pleased  to  have  them  friendly  again.  Nelly 
turned  back,  smiling  cryptically  upon  her  pots  and  pans,  and 
presently  they  all  sat  down  to  a  happy  meal. 

But  later,  Nelly  was  not  so  happy.  There  was  an  eager- 
ness, an  affection  and  helpfulness  about  Rudy  that  filled  her 
with  unrest.     She  loved  him  and  hated  him  at  once,  desired 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  263 

him,  and  yet  plotted  to  evade  him.  Finding  her  happy  and 
well,  his  return  after  two  days'  absence  had  renewed  the  greatest 
problem  of  her  life.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do,  hardly  knew 
what  she  wished  to  do. 

Loving  Rudy,  it  was  life  to  her  to  have  him  friendly,  con- 
versational, admiring.  But  there  was  a  price  to  pay  for  this 
happiness  nowadays,  and  it  was  to  be  had  only  for  that  price. 
Men  were  like  that,  Nelly  philosophized.  Personally  her 
passion  would  have  been  satisfied  with  kisses,  with  sleep  as 
deep  and  sweet  as  a  child's,  in  his  arms.  But  men  were  dif- 
ferent. And  although  poor  little  Nelly  would  have  sacrificed 
her  own  finer  instinct  gladly  and  always,  that  Rudy  might  be 
satisfied,  she  could  not — she  could  not — risk  all  the  conse- 
quences and  be  content.  Those  dragging  terrible  months  of 
struggle  and  helplessness,  when  milk  and  fruit  and  dishes  and 
beds  were  one  long  nauseating  nightmare  to  her; — no  moment, 
no  year  of  passion  satisfied  were  worth  that  cost.  Surely — 
surely  that  was  not  to  be  expected  now. 

While  Brother  had  been  nursing,  her  feeling  for  Rudy  had 
been  merely  friendly  indifference,  but  old  fires  were  awake  in 
them  both  now.  Nelly  foresaw  difficulties,  but  she  was  de- 
termined. It  was  only  sane  to  be  temperate.  Another  summer 
was  coming;  they  were  shorthanded  on  the  ranch;  she  was 
needed.  Her  house  and  her  children  would  keep  her  busy,  and 
she  must  be  well,  she  must  be  hopeful  and  full  of  energy.  It 
was  so  delicious  to  be  well,  to  be  equal  to  the  long  day!  And  it 
was  so  hard  to  be  sick,  pitied,  and  a  burden  to  oneself  and  to 
everyone. 

So  Nelly  steeled  herself,  and  found  small  matters  to  delay 
her  in  the  kitchen,  when  her  father  was  snoring,  and  Rudy  going 
to  bed.  And  as  she  puttered  about,  mixing  buckwheat  and 
setting  bread,  she  reminded  herself  of  burning  days  last  spring, 
before  Brother  came,  of  Rudy's  glowing  health  and  his  im- 
patient lack  of  sympathy,  of  the  hearty  meals  he  had  eaten 
while  she  sat  sick  and  despondent,  of  her  maddened  feeling  that 
it  was  his  will  upon  her  that  had  placed  her  in  his  power,  trem- 
bling with  joy  when  he  was  kind,  crying  wretchedly  when  he 
scolded,  filled  always  with  apprehension  and  weakness  and 
pain. 

Well,  that  had  given  her  her  glorious  boy,  and  she  would 
bear  it  all  over  again  for  Brother,  with  his  solemn  fat  face  and 


264    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

watery  smiles.  But  a  woman  couldn't  be  a  work-horse  and  a 
mother,  too;  Nelly  felt  herself  equal  to  one  calling  or  the  other 
— not  both. 

Rudy  was  awake  when  she  went  into  the  bedroom,  he  smiled 
at  her  from  his  comfortable  position  in  bed. 

"Why  didn't  you  call  me  out  there  to  help  you?" 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  anything!"  Nelly  set  her  lamp  on  the 
bureau  and  began  to  undress,  her  face  thoughtful  and  un- 
smiling. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Rudy  asked,  elaborately  concerned. 

"Nothing!"  Nelly  yawned  a  tearing  yawn.  "Except  that 
I'm  dead!" 

"Well,"  he  said  affectionately,  "you  get  in  here  with  your 
old  man  and  you'll  be  asleep  in  two  seconds!" 

She  smiled  reservedly,  and  when  she  did  get  into  bed  kissed 
him  quickly  and  turned  resolutely  to  her  own  side,  curling 
herself  up  for  sleep.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and 
Nelly's  heart  leaped  with  a  wild  hope  that  he  was  going  to  let 
her  go  to  sleep  in  peace. 

"Nelly,"  he  said  kindly.  Nelly's  spirit  sickened.  "What 
is  it?" 

"What  is  what?"  she  mumbled  innocently,  when  he  had 
repeated  the  question. 

"Why  do  you  treat  me  this  way?" 

"What  way?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean!" 

Silence. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'm  tired,  Rudy!" 

"Tired!  But  my  God,  just  because  you're  tired  can't  you 
be  friendly — talk  to  me  a  little — what's  the  matter  with  you, 

anyway?     I   come   home   after   being   away   two   days !" 

He  had  reared  up  in  bed  now;  and  was  kissing  her.  "All  I 
want  is  for  you  to  kiss  me  good-night,"  he  said. 

She  put  a  slender  little  arm  about  his  neck. 

"Good-night,  dear!"  she  said  finally. 

"Now,  look  here,"  Rudy  said  roughly,  "you  make  me  mad 
when  you  act  this  way " 

"Well,  you  know  perfectly  well " 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind!  All  I  wanted  was  just 
a  little  affection  from  you,  just  some  proof  that  my  wife  loves 
me — that's  all.     I  just  want  to  talk — like  we  used  to — lying 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    265 

here  this  way — that's  right.  You  don't  have  to  be  afraid, 
Nelly,  because  I  give  you  my  word !" 

She  would  talk  to  him,  but  after  a  few  minutes  she  returned 
courageously  to  her  point  and  made  him  angry  again. 

"I  know  what  the  doctor  said,  when  Brother  was  born;  he 
said  that  he  was  positive  that  you  would  never  have  another 
child!" 

"Yes,  and  he  said  that  when  Hildegarde  was  born,  too! 
Doctors  are  men.     They  always  say  that." 

"Well,  listen — I  want  to  tell  you  about  what  Miller  said " 

"I  think" — she  sprang  up  a  few  minutes  later,  pattered 
barefoot  to  the  kitchen — "I  think  that's  the  cat!" 

When  she  came  back  she  was  ice-cold,  but  this  time  there 
was  no  protest  as  she  curled  up  for  sleep,  and  presently — music 
in  her  ears — Rudy  snored.  Nelly  scored  on  this  occasion,  and 
danced  through  her  housework  next  morning,  feeling  her 
father,  her  children,  and  her  home,  to  be  the  best  possible,  and 
cooking  fried  chicken  and  rhubarb  pie  for  a  conciliatory  lunch. 
But  Rudy  was  not  friendly. 

She  could  have  cried  with  helplessness  and  anger,  when  his 
irritation  took  the  form  of  ugliness  with  the  children,  and  cool- 
ness toward  her  father.  The  weather  was  so  beautiful,  every- 
thing was  going  so  well,  why  couldn't  he  help  instead  of 
hindering  the  general  happiness?  She  bribed  him  with  a  little 
hint  of  softening,  and  instantly  the  skies  were  clear  again. 

Rudy  made  a  rocking-horse  for  Hildegarde,  brought  eggs, 
strained  milk,  led  Harry  into  long  talks.  He  tossed  the  baby 
in  the  air,  and  kissed  him  and  kissed  Nelly  when  he  returned 
him.  One  heavenly  day  they  all  went,  grandfather,  mother, 
father,  and  children,  into  Martinez,  a  long  forty  miles  away, 
where  Rudy  transacted  some  legal  business  at  the  court  house 
and  Nelly  bought  a  great  live  fifty-pound  salmon  that  was 
flapping  amongst  a  thousand  others  on  the  pier.  She  had 
packed  a  wonderful  lunch,  and  they  built  a  fire  by  the  marsh, 
and  made  coffee  that  added  the  last  touch  of  deliciousness  to  it. 
The  children  were  ecstatic,  Brother  sleeping  in  his  mother's 
arms  as  they  drove  home  in  the  summer  moonlight,  and  Hilde- 
garde's  precious  weight  close  against  Harry's  contented  heart. 

When  they  all  stumbled  into  the  close,  warm,  dark  little 
house,  and  when  Rudy  came  back  whistling  from  the  barn,  to 
help  her  tumble  the  profoundly  sleeping  children  into  the  dis- 


266    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

ordered  little  beds  they  seemed  to  have  left  so  long  ago,  Nelly- 
smiled  to  herself  resignedly.  What  did  it  matter,  after  all? 
Hers  was  a  losing  fight.  And  she  did  have  her  lovely  home  and 
a  husband  that  truly  loved  her.  For  under  all  Rudy's  inno- 
cent manoeuvring  for  her  favour,  there  was  real  love;  he  was 
not  like  some  men,  Nelly  told  herself,  who  followed  other 
women.  No,  he  loved  her,  as  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  do,  and 
for  the  rest,  well,  that  was  the  way  God  had  made  women,  and 
there  was  no  help  for  it!  Besides,  there  might  never  be  another 
child,  of  course.     Plenty  of  women  had  two,  and  no  more. 

Nelly  recounted  to  herself,  in  the  next  few  days,  the  many 
women  she  knew  who  had  two  children  only.  She  laughed  at  her 
fears,  regretted  her  previous  coldness  to  poor  old  Rudy.  Good 
heavens,  weren't  there  thousands  of  women  whose  one  hope  and 
prayer  was  that  their  husbands  would  love  them?  And  it  was 
sweet  to  have  him  happy  and  devoted,  sweet  to  have  May  sun- 
shine waking  the  ranch  to  hundreds  of  half-forgotten  beauties, 
sweet  to  feel  so  strong  and  confident  and  well  over  butter-making 
and  chicken-farming  and  the  packing  of  picnic  baskets. 

Harry  stayed  with  them  almost  four  weeks,  memorable 
weeks  for  him  and  for  Nelly.  He  was  not  only  interested,  ad- 
miring, and  sympathetic  with  his  wife's  daughter,  but  he  was 
genuinely  helpful.  To  sit  with  a  baby,  to  mend  a  chair  or  a 
wheel,  was  honour  to  Harry;  he  was  like  a  woman  where  dish- 
washing and  potato-peeling  were  concerned. 

"Pa,  if  you  didn't  have  to  go  back!" 

"Well ?"     Harry  coughed    his   apologetic   little  cough. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that!  I'll  be  glad  to  see  your  mother  and 
the  children  again,"  he  added  dutifully. 

"But  do  you  suppose  your  next  job  will  be  in  an  office,  Pa?" 

"I  guess  so,  Nelly." 

"You  couldn't  get  me  into  an  office  for  any  money,"  Rudy 
said,  enjoying  his  after-dinner  pipe.  "I  had  three  years  of  it — 
that's  enough!" 

They  were  in  the  kitchen,  loitering  after  the  midday  meal. 
Both  the  children  had  been  carried  in  for  naps,  the  day  was 
burning  hot,  and  Rudy  was  in  no  hurry  to  return  to  the  orchard 
he  was  cultivating. 

The  table  was  littered  with  plates  and  cups  and  food.  A 
sucking  pig  that  had  been  killed  in  a  farm  gate  was  the  main 
dish,  and  Nelly  had  emphasized  this  unexpected  treat  with  new 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    267 

potatoes  and  new  asparagus  and  a  deep  cherry  pie.  Everybody 
had  quite  deliberately  over-eaten,  more  pig,  more  tea,  more 
tomato  pickle,  and  more  cream  to  finish  the  pie  or  more  pie 
to  finish  the  cream.  There  never  had  been  such  a  feast;  the 
kitchen  reeked  of  it.  Rudy  had  obligingly  rigged  a  sort  of 
awning  outside  the  kitchen  window,  making  it  from  the  good 
portions  of  a  rotted  and  creased  old  tent,  found  in  the  feed- 
house,  and  Nelly  could  not  say  enough  of  the  added  coolness 
and  pleasantness  at  the  window.  She  sat  with  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  playing  with  the  pie  spoon.  Flies  buzzed  above  the 
board,  although  she  had  shoo-ed  them  from  the  kitchen  more 
than  once  this  morning. 

"If  I  had  my  life  to  live  over,  I'd  take  what  I  had  and  buy 
a  farm,"  Harry  said.  "I  was  watching  the  blacksmith  down  in 
the  village  yesterday.  It's  living — that  is.  You  feel  that 
you're  alive.  But  the  minute  I'm  shut  up  I  get  a  sort  of  dizzi- 
ness in  my  head,  like  as  if  I  couldn't  understand  what  I'm  try- 
ing to  do!" 

"And  you've  had  so  many  years  of  it!"  Nelly  said,  blinking 
the  bright  tears  from  her  pretty  eyes,  as  she  looked  at  him. 
"You  darling!"  she  added,  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

"Lots  of  men  in  my  fix!"  he  said,  sensibly. 

"If  I  lost  this  farm  to-morrow,"  Rudy  said,  "Cantrell 
would  make  me  his  farmer — he  said  so.  That  is,  if  it  wasn't  for 
Nelly  and  the  kids.     He  won't  have  any  women  on  his  place!" 

"Well,  I  hope  Nelly  and  the  kids  make  it  up  to  you  in  other 
ways,"  Nelly  herself  said  whimsically  and  appealingly,  as  she 
dropped  her  head  on  one  side  and  smiled  at  him. 

Rudy  grinned  back. 

"There's  lots  of  things  a  man  could  do  if  he  wasn't  tied  down 
by  his  family,"  he  said,  dispassionately.  "A  feller's  telling' 
me  the  other  day  about  going  to  Mexico;  he's  only  going  to  be 
gone  six  weeks.  He's  going  to  get  five  hundred  dollars  for 
driving  a  bunch  of  cattle  out,  and  he  asked  me  to  come  along, 
share  and  share  alike."  Rudy  half  opened  his  mouth,  emitted 
smoke,  and  gripped  his  pipe  stem  in  his  teeth  again.  "'Nope,' 
I  said,  'Wife  and  kids!'" 

Nelly  pondered,  her  cheeks  flushing  deeper  with  excitement. 
Mama  and  Georgie  here — Papa  staying — she  was  more  than 
equal  to  the  demands  of  the  early  summer — and  Rudy  would  be 
back  for  the  heavy  harvesting — — ! 


268    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Rudy,  why  don't  you  go?"  she  began  eagerly.  "There's 
no  earthly  reason  why  you  shouldn't !  Oh,  go  on  !  My  gracious, 
what  a  chance  to  travel  and  see  something — don't  you  think 
so,  Pa?     We'll  be  perfectly  all  right  here " 

"I  see  myself  walking  off!"  Rudy  smiled,  indulgently. 

"  But  why  not  ?  Old  Roderiguez  will  come  over  every  night 
and  morning,  and  there's  only  the  two  cows  now — oh,  Rudy, 
why  don't  you?" 

"Because  I  can't!"  Rudy  said,  negligently.  His  calmness 
maddened  her. 

"Why  do  you  say  you  can't?" 

"Why  do  I?  Because  there's  too  much  to  do  here,  even  if  I 
could  desert  you  and  the  children,  that's  why.  You  talk  as  if 
a  ranch  was  nothing  at  all!  Sometimes  you  don't  talk  as  if 
you  had  good  sense,  Nelly!" 

"  But  Rudy — it  isn't  fair  for  you  to  blame  it  on  the  children 
and  me,  if  it's  really  the  ranch!" 

"Well,  it  is  you  and  the  children!" 

"I'm  perfectly  capable  of  running  myself  and  the  children!" 

"You  think  you  are!"  Rudy  was  superbly  silent,  sucking  on 
his  pipe.  "You  haven't  any  idea  of  the  way  some  of  these  ranch 
hands  act  when  a  woman's  alone!"  he  added,  with  inspiration. 

Sex  again.     Nelly  laughed. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  go  to  Mexico,  Rudy,  don't  go,  but 
for  pity's  sake  don't  pretend  that  it's  on  my  account!" 

"Well,  I'm  not  going — and  that's  all  there  is  about  it!" 
Rudy  got  up,  stuffed  his  pouch  into  his  trouser  pocket,  jerked 
and  shook  himself  generally  after  the  lounging  hour,  clapped 
on  his  hat,  and  sauntered  forth.  Nelly,  with  a  stoical  smile 
for  her  father,  which  might  quite  as  easily  have  been  tears, 
began  to  pile  and  scrape  dishes. 

"Makes  me  so  mad!"  she  excused  herself,  trying  to  laugh. 
The  water  in  the  kettle  was  cold  now,  everything  coated  with 
congealed  pork  fat,  the  kitchen  baking  hot  in  early  afternoon. 
Besides  that  the  children  were  waking,  fretting  and  uncomfor- 
table; Nelly  risked  a  cold  bottle  for  Brother,  but  poor  little 
Brother  paid  for  her  hurry  by  being  feverish  all  that  afternoon 
and  by  crying  all  through  the  hot  night. 

Her  thoughts  were  much  with  Rudy  in  the  quiet  days  after 
her  father  left.     She  would  follow  him  mentally  through  his 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    269 

comfortable,  unhurried  days,  always  able  to  handle  his  own 
affairs,  to  adjust  his  life  to  his  own  ideas.  True,  Rudy  got  up 
early,  and  brought  the  milk  in  at  half-past  six,  but  while  he 
was  moving  through  the  sweet  early  morning  to  the  dreamy 
silence  and  bigness  of  the  barn,  she  was  stumbling  hurriedly 
between  cribs  and  stove,  catching  her  Mother  Hubbard  gown 
together,  catching  up  her  tumbling  coil  of  hair,  wondering 
desperately  what  had  gotten  into  the  old  stove  this  morning, 
anyway.  Milk,  babies,  kindling,  matches,  coffee-pot,  Nelly 
snatched  at  one  after  the  other;  the  possibilities  of  accident 
were  limitless,  and  every  morning  had  its  share. 

Rudy  would  stand  smiling  at  her  while  she  lifted  the  big 
pail  of  milk  up  to  pour  it  into  the  pans.  He  might  ask  good- 
naturedly  if  the  pans  were  clean,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  hearty 
meal.  A  breakfast  of  potatoes  and  cereal,  ham  and  eggs  and 
hot  bread  was  not  enough  for  Rudy;  there  was  always  com- 
ment if  the  hot  cakes  were  not  forthcoming.  He  did  not  like 
toast,  and  to  serve  him  plain  bread  was  nothing  short  of  a 
hostile  overture. 

"Ma  used  to  keep  her  batter  in  a  pitcher — there  isn't  much 
to  a  few  hot  cakes!" 

"She  didn't  have  two  little  babies  to  manage!" 

"Lord — I  don't  care  this  morning.  It  isn't  this  morning! 
But  the  way  you  fuss  you'd  think  nobody  ever  had  to  run  a 
farm  before.  Look  here,  she's  spilled  this,  Nelly — naughty, 
naughty  girl!" 

And  Rudy  would  slap  Hildegarde's  little  hand  before  he 
went  out  into  the  door  yard.  His  oldest-born  would  follow  him 
with  piercing  screams,  and  Nelly,  mopping  up  the  cereal,  would 
feel  nothing  short  of  murderous. 

"How  about  these  currants?"  he  might  say,  returning  to 
the  door. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake — go  about  your  own  affairs!"  his 
wife  would  answer,  in  exasperation.  "You've  waked  the  baby 
up,  with  all  this  uproar!  Now  that  means  ho  more  peace  of 
me  until  his  nap.  I  don't  care  about  the  currants — I  can't 
make  jelly  unless  Pepita  comes  up,  and  I  don't  believe  she's 
coming!" 

Rudy  might  whistle  mildly. 

"Well,  they'll  spoil  here,  my  dear!"  And  he  would  wander 
across  the  door  yard,  eye  the  chickens  thoughtfully,  pinch  a 


27o  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

green  apple  without  removing  it  from  the  tree,  and  so  move 
on  to  the  barn,  where  he  and  the  assistant  of  the  moment 
would  have  long,  comfortable  conversations  regarding  fertilizer 
or  young  pigs.  True,  he  might  harness  the  team  before  noon, 
drive  into  the  village,  to  return  with  sacks  of  grain  or  tins  of 
paint,  or  he  even  might  plough  furrows  back  and  forth  across 
the  meadow  or  orchard,  coming  in  to  dinner  at  twelve  genuinely- 
tired  or  hot. 

But  if  she  asked  him  to  take  Hildegarde  beside  him  into 
town,  he  never  need  give  any  reason  for  his  careless,  "I  can't 
to-day!"  And  though  he  did  occasionally  put  a  child  down  for 
a  nap,  or  change  a  wet  apron,  he  would  have  thought  her  mad 
to  expect  this  assistance.  He  worked,  but  it  was  simple,  un- 
complicated, straight-ahead  work,  subject  to  his  own  wishes. 

She  knew  Rudy  was  convinced  himself  that  he  was  the  busiest 
and  most  responsible  of  men,  driving  a  bull  down  to  the  barn, 
turning  horses  loose,  mending  a  bit  of  harness,  always  whistling, 
unless  he  was  angry,  always  unhurried  and  his  own  master. 
And  from  her  watching  of  him  she  turned  back  to  her  own 
jumble  of  irreconcilable  demands  and  conditions,  to  the  burned 
fingers,  the  soured  soup,  the  infantile  croup  or  colic  that  shat- 
tered whole  nights  of  rest  at  one  blow. 

Did  she  love  her  husband? — Nelly  mused.  Well,  of  course 
she  ought  to  love  him,  and  equally  of  course  she  might  have 
done  so.  But  she  was  fretted  constantly  by  reminders  of  the 
unfairness  of  their  division  of  their  mutual  cares.  All  the 
blame,  all  the  hurry  and  worry,  all  the  illness  and  helplessness 
and  nervousness  fell  to  her.     He  knew  none  of  these  things. 

She  had  winced,  years  ago,  when  an  outspoken  neighbour 
had  voiced  the  old  country  proverb:  "If  the  men  had  to  have 
every  other  one,  there'd  never  be  but  two  children  to  a  family!" 
But  now  Nelly  knew  that  it  was  true,  and  much  less  than  the 
truth.  Nine  months  of  misery,  followed  by  a  year  or  two  of 
nursery  bondage — why,  Rudy  would  not  have  faced  that  pros- 
pect for  a  million  dollars!  The  mere  hint  of  any  sort  of  sub- 
jection infuriated  him.  When  a  steel  sliver  bedded  itself  in 
his  eye,  he  had  been  nearly  beside  himself.  He  would  kill 
himself  rather  than  endure  this  pain,  he  had  shouted.  He 
would  rather  be  dead  than  blind.  The  entire  house  had  circled 
about  his  furious  protests,  until  Nelly  herself  had  deftly  re- 
moved the  hurtful  splinter. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    271 

This  had  been  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  they  were  all 
ready  to  drive  over  to  spend  the  day  with  Pansy  Billers.  The 
children  had  been  buttoned  into  clean  dresses,  Nelly  herself 
was  all  but  dressed  for  the  treat.  But  Rudy,  who  no  longer 
liked  Pansy,  because  she  had  frankly  told  him  that  she  thought 
he  treated  Nelly  mean,  had  decided  that  he  was  too  unwell  for 
the  exertion,  and  had  gone  to  bed,  nursing  the  convalescent 
eye,  and  faintly  demanding  darkness  and  poached  eggs. 

If  only  there  was  no  question  of  "bossing"  in  it,  Nelly  would 
muse,  no  question  of  babies!  If  she  had  been  as  free  to  ordain 
the  conditions  of  her  own  life  as  he  was,  then  she  would  really 
love  Rudy  dearly.  She  would  have  her  dining  table  out  under 
the  oak,  which  he  hated,  she  would  always  have  a  cold  supper 
in  summer,  another  custom  to  which  he  violently  objected,  and 
she  would  dress  for  her  work,  as  men  did,  in  some  radically 
different  fashion — even  in  denim,  perhaps.  True,  she  might 
sew  on  his  buttons  and  make  his  bed,  but  he  would  not  feel  it 
his  right  to  remind  her  of  these  tasks.  She  would  clean  her 
kitchen  once  a  day,  right  after  breakfast,  and  she  would  sell 
every  ounce  of  fruit  that  was  not  eaten  fresh.  After  four  years 
of  farming,  Nelly,  like  almost  all  farmers'  wives,  detested  jams 
and  preserves. 

This  was  her  dream.  But  in  reality  she  had  to  do  just  what  all 
farmers'  wives  have  done  since  farms  were.  She  cooked  heavy, 
hot  food  three  times  a  day,  even  when  the  thermometer  stood 
at  one  hundred;  she  struggled  with  big  pots  and  pans,  with 
pyramids  of  dishes  and  great  baskets  of  fruit.  She  skimmed 
milk,  churned  butter,  washed  children's  clothes,  her  anx- 
ious eyes  always  finding  fresh  tasks  even  while  she  hurried 
through  those  in  hand.  The  clocks  raced,  for  Nelly.  There 
was  no  beginning,  no  end.  When  she  dropped  into  bed  it  was 
to  remember  that  the  dust  was  in  curls  under  the  parlour  table, 
right  near  the  milk,  and  that  the  kitchen  door  let  the  flies  in 
where  the  children's  little  hands  had  pushed  the  netting  free  of 
the  frame.  She  slept  heavily,  and  her  usual  answer  to  Rudy's 
call  of  "six  o'clock,  Nelly!"  was  a  deep,  half-comprehending 
groan. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HARRY'S   back   from  Nelly's,"    Stephen   told   his  wife. 
May's  mild,  faded  eyes  flashed. 
"About  time!"  she  said  drily.     "Fanny  was  saying 
that  she  thought  it  was  perfectly  outrageous !     Really — Steve!" 

"Oh,  nonsense,  woman  Lucy's  age!"  Stephen  said,  unsym- 
pathetically.  There  was  a  silence.  "  Bobo  and  Georgie  there — 
nonsense!"  he  presently  added. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  there  was  anything  wrong,  Steve,"  May 
hastened  to  assure  him;  anxious  to  range  herself  with  him  rather 
than  with  Fanny.  "I  told  Fan  so.  They're  just  getting  set- 
tled, and  Harry  was  too  ill  to  help  move  in,  and  all  that.  But  it 
looks  so  badly — why,  imagine  me,  if  you  had  had  a  brother — of 
course,  you  did  have  a  brother,  but  I  mean  if  your  brother  had 
lived,  and  then  you  had  been  ill  and  gone  off  to  stay  with  one 
of  the  girls — if  Tina,  say,  had  married " 

"Harry  was  down  at  the  office  to-day,"  Stephen  said,  as  un- 
conscious of  interrupting  his  wife  as  she  was  of  being  interrupted. 
"Looks  badly.  He  was  with  Bob  in  the  bookkeeper's  room  for 
quite  a  while." 

"What  doing?"  May  asked  suspiciously. 

"Helping  Miss  Foster,  Bob  said.  I  didn't  pay  much  attention 
to  them,"  Stephen  said,  yawning  elaborately.  "Come  on,  dear, 
let's  go  down." 

"Helping  Miss  Foster!"  May  echoed,  not  stirring.  "Is  Bob 
going  to  work  him  in!" 

"Oh,  no — no — no,  for  heaven's  sake,  May!"  Stephen  said 
impatiently.  He  immediately  joined  Esme,  who  was  loitering 
in  the  hall.     "What  has  this  girl  been  doing  all  day?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing!"  Esme  said,  yawning  and  smiling.  Victoria  and 
Lou  came  out  into  the  hall,  drowsy  and  stretching,  they  had 
been  playing  duets  and  pasting  in  their  scrap-books  and  talking, 
all  day.  They  admitted  that  the  heat  made  them  feel  stupid. 
May  was  anxious  and  worried  for  a  day  or  two,  seeing  a  fresh 

272 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  273 

menace  to  Stephen's  power  in  poor  Harry;  but  then  Stephen  told 
her  that  Harry,  through  Bob's  good-natured  intercession,  had 
gotten  a  job  with  the  firm  of  Finch  &  Houston.  Thady  Houston 
had  been  an  office  boy  in  R.  E.  Crabtree  and  Company's  em- 
ploy, years  ago;  he  was  head  of  a  big  coffee  house  now.  Harry 
would  get  eighty-five  dollars  a  month. 

One  Saturday  night  Bertie  and  Victoria  stayed  in  town,  at 
their  grandfather's  house,  and  Bertie  took  his  sister  to  the 
Tivoli.     It  was  one  of  the  thrilling  occasions  of  Victoria's  life. 

Grandpa  had  gone  upstairs.  Aunt  Fanny  had  bustled  off  to 
a  meeting,  and  Victoria  was  aimlessly  and  dully  looking  at  the 
Dore  "Inferno,"  when  Bertie  tossed  the  evening  paper  aside 
with  a  yawn,  and  said  good-naturedly:  "Want  to  go  to  the 
Tivoli?" 

Want  to  go!  Victoria's  heart  bounded  with  joy.  Why  not? 
This  was  the  way  things  happened  in  books. 

Trembling  with  excitement,  she  put  on  her  hat.  They  went 
downtown  on  the  Sacramento  Street  dummy,  and  Bertie  re- 
marked that  she  had  a  "keen"  hat.  They  met  a  young  man 
named  Ross  Hanna,  a  friend  of  Bertie's,  and  he  looked  as  if  he 
approved  of  the  hat,  and  the  face  under  it,  too.  He  left  them  at 
Powell  Street,  but  no  matter — Victoria  was  radiant  over  the 
mere  meeting.  She  told  herself  that  he  had  admired  her;  Bertie 
laughed  with  pleasure  in  her  company.  He  got  two  seats  for 
"The  Mikado"  and  Victoria  thought  Tilly  Sallinger  amazing, 
and  the  whole  performance  too  wonderful  for  words. 

She  and  Bertie  were  going  home  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  when  they  met  the  Barbee  crowd  at  the  ferry.  Vic- 
toria felt  so  happy,  in  the  new  hat,  and  in  her  comfortable  blue 
sateen,  that  she  quite  warmed  Kitty  with  her  graciousness. 
Kitty  hardly  glanced  at  Bertie,  a  little  coquetry  which  did  not 
escape  Victoria,  but  she  clung  to  Bertie's  sister  with  irresistible 
affection.  Behind  Kitty  streamed  members  of  her  family,  and 
intimate  friends,  perspiring  in  the  unusual  warmth  of  the  day, 
carrying  picnic  boxes — big  cardboard  boxes  that  shirts  had  come 
in,  shoe  boxes,  and  even  a  corset  box  bound  with  shiny  green 
paper — all  filled  with  sandwiches  of  various  kinds.  There  were 
also  damp,  mashed-looking  circular  packages  containing  cocoa- 
nut  and  chocolate  cakes,  bags  of  fruit  through  which  mellow 
apricots  and  thin-skinned   peaches  were  already  oozing,  and 


;i 


274    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

many  supplementary  boxes  of  candy  and  paper  bags  of  rich, 
dark,  sticky  dates. 

Kitty  explained,  as  the  group  swarmed  and  straggled  by, 
that  a  friend  of  her  brother's  was  taking  them  all  out  on  his 
yacht  to-day;  "she,"  the  yacht,  was  way  over  beyond  the  Mis- 
sion Street  wharf,  and  they  were  going  to  El  Campo,  and  going 
to  get  back  about  eight  that  night. 

"And  listen,  you're  coming  along!  Oh,  nonsense,  of  course 
you  are!"  said  Kitty's  married  sister,  Mrs.  Boyle. 

"Oh,  we  couldn't!"  Victoria  said,  amused  at  the  enormity 
of  the  thought,  and  a  little  surprised  to  see  Bertie's  eager  look. 
"Mama  expects  us  home!" 

"I  could  go!"  Bertie  said,  with  longing.  But  Kitty  pounced 
upon  him  with  a  flash  of  protest  as  quick  as  Victoria's  could 
have  been. 

"Yes,  you  could,  you  freshie,"  Kitty  said  gaily;  "we  don't 
want  you,  we  want  your  sister!  Aw,  come  along,"  she  besought 
Victoria  prettily,  "we  are  going  to  have  a  grand  day!  Come  on, 
it's  a  yacht,  you  know — brand  new.  It's  just  had  its  trial  trip 
— never  been  used.  And  it's  such  grand  hot  weather  to  be  on  the 
water!" 

Victoria,  conscious  of  utter  madness,  actually  considered 
it.  The  word  yacht  brought  to  her  vision  a  wonderful  picture  of 
white  sails  ruffling  in  the  breeze,  brass  and  paint  twinkling,  a 
pennant  bright  in  the  sun.  She  had  never  been  on  a  yacht,  but 
yachts  danced  and  dipped  about  the  plodding  ferry  boats  all 
summer  long. 

It  was  a  hot  day,  very  hot  on  the  quiet  ferry  front,  where  the 
tar  under  her  feet  was  softened  in  the  heat.  Only  Sunday 
crowds  moved,  the  streets  were  almost  neglected,  but  the  dum- 
mies that  rattled  down  to  the  Market  Street  turn-table  were 
packed  with  wilted  pleasure-seekers,  noisy  children,  perspiring 
men,  and  babies  in  arms.  Appointments  were  being  made,  being 
missed,  tired  people  were  watching  every  arriving  face  anx- 
iously, were  springing  forward  with  eager  smiles  as  the  expected 
forms  appeared.  The  swarthy,  bearded  old  molasses-candy 
vender,  his  pitted  face  dark  above  his  golden  wares,  threaded 
the  groups  constantly.  Every  few  moments  the  mellow  blare 
of  a  departing  or  arriving  ferry  boat  sounded  above  the  voices 
and  laughter,  and  the  constant  thin  piping  of  a  million  circling 
gulls.  w 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         275 

"All  right,  she's  coming! "  said  a  tall,  blond,  buoyant  person 
named  Teddy  Green,  as  Victoria  hesitated. 

Victoria  ,liked  him  already.  A  long,  heavenly  Sunday  on  a 
yacht,  with  this  delightful  person  included ! 

"Oh,  but  Bertie — Mama "  she  faltered. 

"I  don't  care,  I'm  going!"  Bertie  said  airily. 

"Well,  I  can't!"  Victoria  responded,  suddenly  cold.  And  it 
seemed  to  her  for  a  second  actually  preferable  to  return  virtu- 
ously to  San  Rafael,  to  be  praised  and  applauded  for  her  moral 
courage. 

"Say,  listen,  I'll  tell  you  what — listen,  I'll  tell  you  what!" 
said  Mrs.  Boyle  eagerly.  "You  come  with  us,  Miss  Brewer, 
and  we'll  have  the  yacht  put  in  at  Saucelito,  and  you  and  Bertie 

can  just  take  the  next  train  home?     Huh ?     Isn't  that  an 

idea?" 

"Even  if  we  miss  the  noon  train,  we'll  get  the  two  o'clock!" 
Bertie  reminded  her,  reassuringly. 

In  another  moment  she  was  running  happily  along  among 
them  all,  her  skirts  gathered  in  her  right  hand,  her  left  elbow 
grasped  by  the  firm  fingers  of  young  Teddy  Green.  Everything 
was  youth,  sunshine,  adventure.     She  was  in  love. 

They  ran  on  through  heat  and  confusion,  and  over  the  yielding 
tar  and  the  hot,  rough  cobblestones,  and  past  wharves,  fences, 
dock-offices,  lumber,  and  all  the  heaped  accumulations  of  the 
piers.  There  seemed  to  be  imminent  danger  of  being  too  late 
for  the  hour  of  sailing,  and  Victoria  was  conscious  of  passionate 
fear  as  she  ran.     Oh,  if  they  missed  it ! 

About  a  last  corner  they  dashed,  and  down  a  long  wharf,  and 
out  through  great  grain-strewn  doorways,  and  there  they  were. 
And  there  was  the  "yacht,"  a  plain,  big  flat-bottomed  vessel  that 
looked  more  like  a  scow,  except  for  the  clean  new  sail  with  which 
several  shouting  young  men  were  hilariously  experimenting. 
Victoria  was  conscious  of  a  first  pang  of  disappointment;  she 
looked  singularly  utilitarian,  this  craft,  hardly  rocking  in  the 
dirty  rubbish-strewn  water  that  eddied  languidly  through  the 
chafed  piles.  Victoria  saw  orange  peels  floating,  and  cocoanut 
shells  in  their  hairy  husks,  and  chaff,  and  oil,  and  a  box  or  two. 

She  liked  the  aspect  of  her  fellow  voyagers  almost  as  little  as 
she  did  the  /.  and  Dan  McCloud.  They  were  disconcertingly 
numerous;  there  were  perhaps  forty  young  persons  already  on 
board,  and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  every  flushed  and  noisy 


276    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

couple  who  came  running  down  the  pier  were  also  headed  for 
the  new  "yacht."  Some  girls  and  rather  common-looking 
young  men,  perched  on  the  roof  of  the  little  cabin,  were  almost 
embracing  as  they  chewed  gum  and  toyed  with  a  concertina. 
Two  husky  big  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves  were  wheeling  a  small 
keg  of  beer  on  board. 

The  yacht  had  been  scheduled  to  sail  at  eleven  o'clock,  but  an 
hour  and  a  half  later  she  was  still  secure  at  the  dock.  The  guests 
were  evidently  all  on  board  now,  and  one  or  two  elderly  women, 
and  one  or  two  buxom  young  matrons,  had  established  them- 
selves on  the  shady  side  of  the  deck,  where  the  luncheon  boxes 
were  piled,  and  where  a  few  babies  and  quite  young  children 
could  be  managed  safely. 

The  engaging  Teddy  Green  still  was  faithful  to  Victoria,  and 
she  knew  the  first  thrill  of  mutual  attraction.  He  was  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  she  had  ever  seen;  he  was  conspicuously 
well  dres«ed,  radiating  good-nature,  charm,  wit,  and  a  most 
flattering  devotion.  They  sat  on  some  lumber,  on  the  pier,  and 
their  conversation  ran  along  in  a  manner  only  too  familiar  to 
the  popular  Teddy,  but  full  of  breathless  charm  for  Victoria. 

"  No,  but  tell  me — who  are  you  ? " 

"I've  told  you — Victoria  Brewer,  of  San  Rafael.  That's  my 
brother,  over  there  with  Miss  Barbee!" 

"I  don't  care  who  your  brother  is!" 

"Well,  you  asked  me " 

"I  asked  you  who  you  were.  And  I  can  see  that  we  don't 
need  any  incandescent  lights  where  you  are!  No,  but  seri- 
ously— what  did  you  think  when  you  first  saw  me?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  what  I  thought!" 

"I  know  what  you  thought — but  no  woman  ever  will  admit 
it!" 

"Admit  what?" 

"That  she  likes  a  fellow " 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  liked  me — right  off  like  that?" 

Mr.  Green's  voice  dropped  and  his  handsome  head  came  a 
little  nearer. 

"  Don't  you  know  I  did  ?"  he  said,  marking  a  rough  plank  with 
a  splinter  and  not  looking  up.  "Tell  me  you're  a  little  glad  I 
did?" 

"  Well,  of  course  I'm  glad ! "  Victoria  gave  a  flirt's  laugh.  "I 
always  like  men  to  like  me!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  277 

"Ah,  yes,  but  now  you're  not  talking  honestly!  You're  talk- 
ing to  impress  me!" 

His  shrewdness  almost  embarrassed  her. 

"You're  a  funny  boy!"  she  said. 

"Why,  my  dear  girl,"  Teddy  said,  with  that  thrilling  easy 
familiarity  that  so  oddly  reached  her  innermost  reserves,  "you 
don't  have  to  talk  to  impress  me.  I  like  you,  don't  you  under- 
stand? And  what's  more,"  he  added,  as  Kitty's  loud  hail  took 
them  in  Kitty's  direction  again,  "before  this  day  is  over  I'm  go- 
ing to  kiss  you!" 

Victoria's  breath  was  taken  away,  but  it  was  a  delicious  sort 
of  fear,  after  all,  that  made  life  sing  in  her  veins.  She  felt  gay, 
fearless,  confident,  she  was  witty  and  she  knew  it.  Teddy  did 
not  leave  her  side;  other  young  men  were  attracted  to  her  flash- 
ing repartee. 

The  hot,  uproarious  crowd  moved  noisily  about  them;  there 
were  signs  of  actual  departure  at  last.  The  new  sail  was  rattled 
up  the  mast  by  a  score  of  shouting  young  men,  it  filled  majestic- 
ally, and  the  boom  shifted.  A  little  chuckle  of  disturbed  water 
cut  through  the  orange-peels  and  floating  paper  boxes,  and 
crimped  young  women  in  sweeping  organdies  began  to  pass 
sandwiches. 

Teddy  had  a  pencil  out,  and  was  explaining  a  spinnaker  sail. 
Vicky  brought  her  bright  face  close  to  his,  as  if  unconsciously. 
Suddenly  he  covered  her  hand  with  his  own. 

"You're  a  darling!"  he  said  softly.  And  at  his  words  her 
heart  seemed  to  turn  to  water,  and  life  was  unbearably  sweet. 
Immediately  he  went  on  with  his  diagram;  Vicky  watched, 
her  colour  rising,  her  heart  thumping. 

They  walked  along  the  crowded  deck,  and  it  was  delicious 
to  have  him  help  her  solicitously.  He  said  that  he  had  not  in- 
tended to  make  this  trip,  until  he  saw  her. 

Vicky,  cornered  against  the  deck  house,  made  the  same  con- 
fession. They  murmured,  looking  down  at  the  paper  fan  the 
girl's  agitated  hands  were  destroying.  Suddenly  Teddy  put  his 
arms  about  her,  tipped  up  her  laughing  and  protesting  and 
scandalized  face,  and  stopped  her  lips  with  a  snatched  kiss. 

Victoria  was  honestly  shocked,  although  the  kiss  was  a  boyish 
one,  possessing  none  of  the  quality  that  she  quite  instinctively 
feared  from  such  a  familiarity.     It  was  a  boy-and-girl  affair, 


278    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

fortunately  lost  in  the  general  confusion  about  them.  The 
/.  and  Dan  McCloud  was  free  of  the  piers  now,  and  moving  gal- 
lantly out  upon  the  ruffled  bay;  the  sail  rattled  briskly,  and  the 
new  clean  wood  of  the  boom  showed  oily  fingermarks  upon  its 
virgin  surface. 

Confused,  the  girl  went  to  the  rail  and  leaned  upon  it,  watch- 
ing the  scudding  water  blindly.  She  felt  hurt  in  some  inde- 
finable way;  Teddy  liked  her  the  less  for  that  kiss,  and  she  knew 
he  did.  She  had  been  unladylike,  romping,  a  hoyden.  The 
terrible  words  came  to  her  instinctively;  Mama  would  say  them 
all  if  she  knew.  Vicky's  face  burned;  she  was  frightened,  she 
wanted  to  go  home.  Already  the  phrase  throbbed  in  her  heart, 
"Oh,  if  I  only — only  hadn't  done  it!" 

Teddy  had  joined  the  navigating  young  men;  he  appeared  to 
know  a  great  deal  about  boats,  as  indeed  he  did  about  every- 
thing. Victoria  busied  herself  with  the  older  women,  her  heart 
a  whirlpool  of  confused  and  ashamed  thoughts.  She  cut  sticky 
cakes  and  handled  moist,  rich  sandwiches  carefully,  soothed  by 
her  companions'  ready  friendship  and  appreciation.  They  were 
common,  she  thought,  but  they  were  not  vulgar. 

However,  there  were  two  young  women  on  board  to  whose 
correct  class  Victoria  instantly  consigned  them  although  she  had 
never  seen  them  before,  and  had  but  hazy  ideas  of  their  pitiful 
calling.  Their  cheap,  showy  clothing,  their  painted  faces  and 
dyed  hair  made  her  uneasy,  and  as  the  yacht  flapped  her  slow 
way  past  the  docks,  she  saw  the  Saucelito  boat  coming  slowly 
and  majestically  into  her  slip,  and  felt  a  wild  pang  of  home- 
sickness and  regret. 

There  was  little  wind,  until  they  had  tacked  past  Alcatraz, 
and  caught  the  unfailing  breeze  from  the  Golden  Gate.  Then 
the  boom  went  about  smartly,  and  girls  screamed,  and  feet  ran 
on  deck,  and  there  was  sudden  excitement  and  exhilaration  every- 
where. The  blue  water  raced  by,  the  white  sail  dipped,  ropes 
rattled  and  spray  splashed,  and  they  were  really  under  way.. 
But  so  broad  was  the  body  of  the  /.  and  Dan  McCloud  that 
there  was  almost  no  motion,  and  to  Victoria's  disgust  the  more 
vulgar  element  among  the  guests  began  to  dance  to  the  music 
of- the  concertina. 

She  sat  upon  a  square  chest,  her  back  against  the  sun-warmed 
wall  of  the  deck  house,  and  tried  to  make  herself  feel  that  the  trip 
was  the  thing,  the  enchantment  of  sailing  paramount  in  her 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    279 

thoughts.  But  it  was  in  vain.  She  could  only  see  the  fascina- 
ting Teddy,  who  was  completely  absorbed  among  male  compan- 
ions, now,  and  could  only  feel,  with  hurt  and  helplessness,  that 
that  kiss  had  somehow  committed  him  to  her,  as  she  indeed  felt 
bound  to  him,  and  that  he  was  deliberately  ignoring  and  snub- 
bing her. 

Bertie  and  Kitty  had  disappeared;  everything  seemed  stale, 
glaring,  cheap,  and  disgusting  to  Victoria,  and  she  began  to  wish 
passionately  that  she  had  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  come.  They 
were  tacking  through  the  straits;  she  could  not  even  see  Sau- 
celito,  any  more;  they  were  in  Richardson's  Bay. 

Presently  Teddy  returned  to  her  side,  but  by  this  time  she  felt 
oddly  heavy  and  self-conscious  again;  their  friendship  had  too 
rapidly  reached  its  climax;  it  could  only  recede.  Victoria  tried 
to  be  sprightly,  tried  to  envelope  herself  once  more  in  a  veil  of 
shyness  and  novelty.  But  that  first  violent  romping  had  swept 
away  this  possibility,  and  in  the  glaring  heat  of  early  afternoon, 
in  this  environment  of  oily  sandwiches,  crushed  fruit,  and  per- 
spiring bodies,  she  was  conscious  only  of  a  flushed  face,  a  faint 
headache,  and  a  hatred  of  everyone  and  everything,  herself  in- 
cluded. 

The  next  two  hours  were  wretched.  Finally  the  boat  was 
drawn  in  to  an  old  dock  near  El  Campo,  and  while  almost  all  her 
passengers  went  up  to  the  Casino  to  dance,  Victoria  helped  with 
the  beach  fire  and  the  preparations  for  a  clam-bake.  Teddy 
remained  beside  her,  and  at  five  o'clock,  drinking  delicious  coffee 
from  the  same  cup,  they  were  deep  in  flirtation  again,  and  Vick 
was  happy,  despite  a  gnawing  terror  of  the  parental  attitude  at 
home,  and  a  guilty  feeling  that  her  conduct  with  Teddy  was 
having  a  most  demoralizing  effect  upon  Kitty  and  Bertie,  who 
were  acting  quite  openly  as  betrothed  lovers. 

The  feast  was  enjoyed  on  the  beach,  lovely  now  in  the  decline 
of  the  sun,  and  eaten  by  most  of  the  revellers  in  a  reclining 
position.  While  they  ate  and  drank,  they  laughed,  flirted,  and 
sang,  the  "bad  girls,"  as  Victoria  called  them,  resting  com- 
fortably against  male  shoulders,  and  twisting  occasionally  to  kiss 
the  nearest  lips. 

Five  o'clock — and  not  a  move  made  toward  home.  What 
time  would  they  get  home  anyway?  Mama  and  Papa  would 
be  furious,  of  course. 

Another  yacht,  a  small  trim  craft  this  time,  put  in  to  the 


280  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

beach,  and  the  four  young  men  on  board  all  knew  Teddy  Green. 
Victoria's  heart  sank  with  a  perfectly  correct  intuition  when  she 
saw  them.  Of  course  they  wanted  him  to  go  back  with  them, 
and  of  course  he  would  go. 

He  came  to  her  with  a  murmured  explanation;  these  fellows 
were  shorthanded,  do  you  see?  Victoria  was  deeply  hurt,  but 
she  could  not  show  it.  She  must  pretend  that  she  did  not  care. 
Of  course  he  must  go  with  his  friends  if  they  wanted  him.  Cer- 
tainly she  understood.     Her  brother  was  here. 

"But  Fm  going  to  see  you  again,"  Teddy  said  earnestly,  in 
parting,  "and  damn  soon,  too!" 

He  jumped  on  the  yacht,  the  sail  went  up,  she  dipped  and 
swerved  smoothly  upon  her  way.  It  remained  for  Victoria  to 
console  herself  with  Kitty's  enthusiastic  comments  upon  Ted- 
dy's "crush,"  and  Kitty  did  not  spare  words. 

"But  Bertie,  it's  nearly  half-past  five!"  Victoria  said,  sud- 
denly conscientious. 

"Well,  I  told  you  I  wanted  to  go  home,  before  we  ever 
started!" 

"Oh,  you  did  not!     You  said  you'd  do  what  I  did!" 

"Well,  I  couldn't  leave  you  and  go,  could  I?" 

"What's  the  diff?"  Kitty  asked,  amused  at  the  skirmish; 
"we're  going  all  the  way  to  San  Rafael,  and  we'll  see  you  home, 
if  it's  midnight!" 

Midnight — Victoria   turned    cold.     Papa — Mama !     She 

looked  helplessly  about,  at  the  bare  beach,  the  rippling  tide,  the 
littered  camp  fire.  The  /.  and  Dan  McCloud  lay  as  passive  at 
the  weather-worn  pier  as  if  she  had  never  moved  in  her  life. 
Suppose  dark  came,  and  there  was  no  wind,  and  they  drifted  idly 
about,  hour  after  hour 

"How  far  is  El  Campo?"  she  asked.  But  Bertie  and  Kitty 
were  wandering  away,  and  did  not  hear. 

However,  a  shabby,  tall  young  man  who  had  just  come  down 
to  the  shore,  and  who  was  standing  looking  idly  about,  did  hear, 
and  touched  his  hat  as  he  answered: 

"About  half  a  mile!"  And  then  suddenly  smiling,  he  added, 
"Why,  how  do  you  do  Miss  Brewer — Victoria?"  It  was  Davy 
Dudley. 

Victoria  took  his  hand  with  a  great  lightening  at  her  heart. 
Sober  old  helpful  Davy  would  get  her  out  of  this  predicament. 
They  talked  eagerly.     Davy  was  driving,  with  a  middle-aged 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  281 

man  who  wanted  to  try  a  horse  before  he  bought  it.  He  took  a 
time-table  from  his  pocket;  there  was  a  six-seventeen  train  from 
El  Campo,  which  would  get  her  into  San  Rafael  at  about  seven. 

Home  at  seven — home  at  seven!  Victoria  could  hardly  be- 
lieve it  was  possible.  Safety,  security,  and  her  own  book  and 
bed  at  nine  o'clock. 

She  flew  to  Bertie,  and  when  Bertie  turned  restive,  threatened 
to  go  home  alone.  But  Bertie  was  too  shrewd  to  permit  this. 
This  would  at  once  acquit  Victoria  of  all  responsibility,  and 
win  for  him  a  long  sermon  on  the  subject  of  protecting  his  sisters. 

So  Davy  drove  Bertie  and  Victoria,  and  Kitty,  who  decided 
to  go  home  too,  to  the  station,  and  Kitty  sat  in  the  front  seat 
with  the  prospective  horse  buyer,  and  flirted  with  him  as  freshly 
as  if  she  had  just  risen  from  a  long  and  refreshing  night's  sleep, 
and  Victoria  was  wedged  between  the  two  other  men  in  the  back 
seat,  revolving  just  the  grateful  speech  with  which  she  too  would 
take  leave  of  Davy. 

"Davy,  you've  been  an  angel  to  me — will  you  come  and  see 
me  some  day?"  was  what  she  finally  chose,  and  Davy's  happy 
flush  and  stammered  response  remained  in  her  memory  as  the 
real  moment  of  the  day. 

She  and  Bertie  reached  home  just  at  seven,  and  joined  the 
family  for  a  Sunday  night  supper.  They  had  gone  ofF  on  a 
yacht,  they  explained,  but  it  promised  to  be  too  much  of  a  good 
thing,  so  they  had  persuaded  "the  people"  to  put  them  off  near 
home,  rather  than  alarm  Papa  and  Mama. 

May  rather  liked  the  sound  of  a  yacht.  Only  rich  and  aristo- 
cratic persons  had  yachts.     Whose  was  it? 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Victoria  said,  with  an  easy  laugh. 
"There  were  quite  a  few  people  on  board.  It  was  fun,  only  we 
got  tired  of  it!" 

"You  must  be  starving,"  Esme  said. 

"We  are!"  said  Bertie,  feeling  that  he  never  wanted  to  eat 
again. 

"Be  careful  how  you  go  off" on  yachts,"  Stephen  said,  vaguely. 
Tina  only  partially  heard.  Young  Mrs.  Yelland  had  told  her 
this  afternoon  of  an  expected  event  at  the  parsonage;  and  Tina 
could  still  hear  those  thrilling  and  amazing  words:  "Vernon  and 
I  want  you  to  be  the  first  to  know,  Ernestine,  that  we  hope  for  a 
dear  little  stranger  here,  about  Thanksgiving " 

Tina's  whole  being  throbbed  in  response  to  this  news.     She 


282    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

was  still  a  maid,  and  this  gentle,  mild  woman  had  passed  through 
courtship,  and  wifehood,  and  was  now  moving  on  to  undreamed 
experience.  Tina  felt  rich  in  being  Grace's  closest  friend,  the 
privileged  confidante  and  sharer  of  all  this  richness.  Nelly's 
mere  motherhood  had  never  meant  anything  to  Tina,  but  there 
was  something  wonderful  in  the  reverence  and  responsibility 
with  which  Vernon  and  Grace  accepted  life. 

Victoria  dropped  wearily  into  bed  at  nine  o'clock,  sinking  at 
once  into  the  pages  of  "Wee  Wifie."  And  as  the  big  house  be- 
came silent,  and  the  voices  of  her  parents  rose  and  fell  serenely  in 
their  bedroom,  a  great  feeling  of  content  and  safety  came  over 
her,  and  she  let  her  eyes  wander  about  the  shabby,  comfortable 
room,  and  deliberately  took  out  the  events  of  the  day  for  re- 
view. 

Teddy — Davy — a  trip  about  the  bay.  And  the  Tivoli  last 
night,  and  art  school  Tuesday — life  was  certainly  exciting. 
If  only  Mama  never  found  out  that  to-day's  outing  had  been 
connected  with  the  objectionable  Kitty ! 

Victoria's  heart  began  to  beat  fast.  Mama  never  must  find 
that  out!  She  had  a  secret  to  hide.  The  offence  began  to  look 
serious,  now  that  the  adventure  was  over.  Bertie  wouldn't 
tell.     She  wouldn't  tell.     Who  could,  then? 

She  opened  the  book  again,  banished  all  uneasiness.  The 
crowd  on  the  /.  and  Dan  McCloud  were  probably  still  on  the 
beach,  but  she  was  home,  and  the  day  successfully  ended. 

November  was  wet;  it  was  long  remembered  as  the  rainiest 
season  on  record.  The  Brewer  girls  practised,  read  novels, 
sewed,  and  moped,  their  impatient  eyes  upon  the  beaten 
garden,  the  tumbled  pungent  chrysanthemums,  the  shabby  ever- 
greens and  swaying,  yellowed  pampas  grass.  Their  neat  plaid 
mackintoshes  hung  in  the  entry,  on  hooks,  their  muddy  rubbers 
were  congregated  on  the  balustraded  front  porch. 

May  had  thought  it  well  for  Tina  not  to  be  too  frequently 
at  the  parsonage  just  now;  there  was  something  indelicate  in  her 
sharing  of  the  vigil  before  the  great  event.  But  one  day  Vernon 
Yelland  appeared,  white,  and  with  wet,  pink  eyes,  to  say  that 
dear  Grace  had  a  little  girl,  and  then  Tina  could  fly  to  her  friend. 
Esme  was  sallow,  restless  over  books  and  fancy-work.  Lou  had 
a  great  friend,  the  fascinating  Lily  Duvalette's  sister,  Daisy 
Baker,  and  while  the  lawsuit  for  old  "Baked  Potato's"  money 


I 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    283 

was  being  dragged  through  the  papers,  Lou  and  Daisy  had  been 
taken  by  the  latter's  aunt  to  a  quiet  country  hotel  at  Con- 
gress Springs.  Bertie  came  and  went  with  his  usual  amiable 
reserve,  and  Victoria  kept  at  her  art. 

Davy  had  indeed  come  to  see  her,  but  only  to  say  good- 
bye. He  was  going  to  Germany,  to  do  interne  work  in  the 
hospitals  there.  Victoria  asked  him  how  his  family  could  spare 
him. 

"They  can't,"  Davy  had  said  ruefully.  "Everything  is  as 
rotten  as  it  can  be,  up  at  Napa.  I  think  my  sister  'Lizabeth 
may  get  married.  My  Aunt  Lilly — Miss  Clay,  isn't  very  well, 
and  they're  all  mad  because  old  Doc'  Boone  up  there  asked 
me  to  go  in  with  him — which  of  course  would  make  everything 
easier,  all  round!" 

"Oh,  but  Davy "     She  loved  advising  him.     "Then  I 

think  you  ought  to!" 

"No,"  he  had  said,  with  his  earnest  scowl.  "I've  thought  it 
all  out.  I  want  to  settle  in  some  city — specialize.  I  feel  this 
way,  Victoria.  If  I  go  home,  it  means  we  never  will  get  out  of 
the  hole.  If  I  get  some  special  training  and  make  good,  why, 
then  I  can  help  them  all!" 

"But  meanwhile  they  may  all  starve!"  the  girl  had  suggested. 

"Well" — his  worried  smile  had  not  had  much  mirth  in  it — 
"well,  they've  all  been  starving,  you  may  say,  for  ten  years! 
Two  or  three  more  won't  do  much  harm " 

So  Davy,  Doctor  David  Dudley  now,  had  gone  away,  and  the 
Brewer  girls  had  blamed  him  heartily,  and  Nelly,  coming  down 
for  a  few  days  at  Thanksgiving,  had  said  that  it  showed  how 
hard  he  was  getting.  Fanny  had  added  that  a  piece  of  selfish- 
ness like  that  ought  to  be  stopped  by  law. 

Fanny  was  irritable  and  nervous  anyway,  just  now.  A  recent 
trifling  incident  had  worried  her  disproportionately,  and  she 
had  suddenly  decided  once  more  to  go  to  Europe  and  leave  all 
domestic  jars  behind. 

Carra  had  asked  her,  one  afternoon,  for  a  letter  of  reference  for 
Carra's  niece,  one  Queenie  Rowsey,  of  Alameda. 

"She  want  work  on  baids  en  some  hotel  place,"  Carra  had 
said;  "you  knows  Queenie,  Miss  Fanny." 

Fanny  really  did  not  know  Queenie,  except  by  name,  but  she 
was  exceedingly  sensitive  and  apprehensive  where  Carra  was 
concerned,   and  had   silently  seated  herself  at  her  desk,   and 


284    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

dashed  off  a  note  to  the  effect  that  Queenie  was  known  to  her 
and  she  believed  her  to  be  honest,  sober,  and  a  good  worker. 

Having  dismissed  the  incident  completely  from  her  mind,  she 
was  therefore  disconcerted  when  a  rather  coarse  man  appeared 
in  her  parlour  one  afternoon,  with  a  request  that  she  tell  him 
exactly  what  she  did  know  of  Queenie,  who  had  disappeared  from 
the  Russ  House  with  more  than  two  hundred  dollars  from  the 
till.  Fanny  tried  to  snub  this  man  with  an  airy  observation 
that  she  was  not  responsible  for  the  negress,  but  the  man  had 
grown  impudent,  and  Fanny  flushed  and  trembling,  and  in  the 
end  he  had  departed  with  a  most  disquieting  promise  to  call  in 
the  law. 

"A  lot  he  could  do!"  Fanny  told  herself  a  hundred  times,  with 
great  tossing  of  her  head.  His  last  words,  "Why,  you'd  never 
even  seen  the  woman!"  remained  in  her  mind. 

"That  Queenie,  she  bad  all  thoo!"  Carra  commented,  sagely. 

"Well,  upon  my  word — then,  you  might  have  given  me  a 

hint \"     But  Fanny  could  not  relieve  herself,  to  Carra,  not 

with  Pa's  shameful  secret  hanging  over  her.  So  she  wanted  to 
go  to  Italy  and  began  to  talk  about  it  again. 

This  time  she  decided  to  take  Esme,  whose  health  was  not 
very  good. 

Fanny  went  so  far  as  to  buy  a  trunk,  and  a  green  and  blue 
fringed  plaid,  two  objects  that  tremendously  thrilled  her  nieces 
when  they  came  to  the  California  Street  house.  Victoria,  wrap- 
ping herself  in  the  plaid,  assumed  the  airs  of  a  person  languidly 
reclining  in  a  deck  chair,  and  they  all  laughed.  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  Fanny  that  the  girl  would  make  a  far  more  amusing 
travelling  companion  than  Esme,  and  she  excited  Victoria  al- 
most to  fever  by  telling  her  that  she,  Fanny,  was  coming  to  see 
Mama  very  soon,  on  a  matter  of  great  importance,  and  upon 
Victoria's  asking  her  aunt's  advice  as  to  whether  a  new  coat  or 
another  three  months  at  art  school  would  be  the  best  investment, 
Fanny  embraced  her,  and  said  with  a  mischievous  and  signifi- 
cant laugh: 

"A  little  bird  tells  me  that  you'll  need  a  heavy  coat  this  fall!" 

"Oh,   Aunt   Fanny !"     Victoria   had    said,    ecstatically. 

And  she  went  home  upon  air. 

Fanny  did  indeed  come  to  see  May  soon,  on  a  January  day 
when  sheets  of  rain  were  sweeping  across  the  old  garden.  The 
house  was  warm,  except  in  the  wide,  bleak  hallways,  and  Fanny 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    285 

found  the  whole  family  together,  and  extremely  glad  to  have 
the  dull  day  broken  by  a  caller.  Even  Stephen  was  there,  con- 
fined with  a  heavy  cold,  and  Victoria  was  there,  the  weather 
having  prevented  her  usual  Tuesday  lesson;  Bertie  alone  was 
absent. 

They  were  in  the  dining-room,  the  temporary  absence  of  a 
servant  explaining  the  informality  of  housework  and  meals. 
Victoria  and  Lou  were  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen,  cooking 
luncheon,  Esme  had  been  reading  to  her  father,  Tina  was  trim- 
ming the  raw  edge  from  yards  and  yards  of  embroidery  with  a 
tiny,  sharp  scissors,  the  severed  strip  sliding  down  against  her 
skirt  of  worn  plum-coloured  sateen.  May  had  been  at  the 
entry  door,  letting  in  a  wet  draft  of  air  as  she  negotiated  with 
the  old  "vegetable  Chinaman,"  who  had  lowered  his  big  baskets 
on  the  porch,  and  lifted  out  their  round  trays  to  show  sweet 
potatoes  and  red  apples. 

"Well,  Fanny!"  said  May,  in  pleased  welcome.  "That's 
all,  John,"  she  said  to  the  Chinese.  "You  tell  me — I  pay  to- 
morrow." 

And  while  the  old  fellow  packed  up  his  wares  and  balanced 
the  long  carrying-pole  upon  his  blue  ticking  shoulder,  May  led 
her  sister  in. 

"Mama — how  much  butter — about  a  lump  like  this?"  Lou 
asked,  from  the  kitchen  door.  "Oh,  hello,  Aunt  Fanny!  Vicky, 
here's  Aunt  Fanny!" 

"Here's  old  bothersome  Aunt  Fanny  come  to  make  more  work 
for  you  poor  little  girlies!"  Fanny  laughed,  as  her  cold,  hard, 
rosy  face  was  kissed  and  her  damp  outer  garments  carried  away 
by  the  gathering  nieces.  "Well,  Steve,  what  does  all  this  mean?" 

"Oh,  I've  got  an  awful  cold,"  Stephen  said  heavily,  glad  of 
fresh  sympathy. 

"Working  too  hard,  eh?"  Fanny  said  briskly,  as  she  turned 
back  her  damp  skirt,  and  exposed  well-clad,  sturdy  feet  to  the 
fire.     Her  brother-in-law's  face  darkened. 

"No,"  he  said  gloomily,  and  fell  silent.  Fanny  raised  sur- 
prised eyebrows  and  glanced  expectantly  at  May.  "They're 
doing  things  pretty  much  as  they  please,  there,"  Stephen  added, 
bitterly,  after  a  pause,  "and  they'll  run  themselves  on  the  rocks 
one  of  these  days,  I  tell  them!" 

"Bob — and  young  Fenderson,"  May  said  lightly  and  in  ex- 
planation. 


286    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Young  Fenderson — why,  he's  nothing  but  a  boy!"  Fanny 
protested. 

"Thirty,"  Stephen  said,  drily. 

"Well,  but  Stephen,  I  think  it's  your  business  to  look  out  for 
things  a  little  more,"  Fanny  suggested,  uneasily;  "after  all, 
there  are  stockholders  to  think  of!  It  isn't  conscientious — it's 
your  business  to  protect  them!" 

"Imagine  advertising — spices!"  May  said  eagerly  and  read- 
ily; "things  that  everybody  has  to  have  anyway,  imagine  that 
Bob  Crabtree  put  seven  hundred  dollars  into  advertising  alone, 
last  year!     Spices!" 

"That's  only  one  detail,"  Stephen  said  sombrely  and  im- 
patiently, with  a  half-indulgent,  half-annoyed  glance  at  his  wife. 

"I  think  Bob's  crazy!"  Fanny  said,  aghast.  "Why  do  you 
let  him  do  it?" 

"You  forget  that  I  am  only  vice-president  of  the  firm,  Fanny," 
Stephen  said,  enjoying  her  consternation.  "Talk  to  your  father 
or  Bob!" 

"It's  ridiculous  for  Pa  to  interfere  as  he  does!"  Fanny  sput- 
tered anxiously.  "Rob,  now — there's  another  drain  on  the 
firm!  I'd  like  to  know  what  board  he  pays  Lucy!  Lucy  was 
in  the  White  House,  buying  dress  goods,  last  week — dear  me, 
we  are  putting  on  airs!  I  asked  her  to  come  up  to-day  and  sit 
with  Pa,  but  she  said  she  had  Bobo  on  her  hands,  and  that 
she  had  a  Japanese  boy  cleaning  on  Wednesdays,  anyway. 
'All  right,'  I  said,  'but  all  I  ask  is,  don't  come  to  me  for  favours, 
the  next  time  things  go  wrong!'" 

"Did  she  ever,  Aunt  Fanny?"  Lou  asked. 

"Certainly  she  did,  or  Harry  did,  not  a  year  ago,"  Fanny 
said,  vexedly  sniffing  and  beating  the  end  of  her  nose.  "Wanted 
five  hundred  dollars — I  like  the  style!" 

"I  never  knew  that,"  May  said,  round-eyed.  Stephen  also 
looked  interested. 

"Well,  they  didn't  get  it."  Fanny  was  too  honest  not  to 
say.  "I  was  arranging  it,  I  had  gone  downtown  about  it,  at 
least,  to  see  what  my  balance  was,  when  things  brightened  up, 
and  this  ridiculous  arrangement  with  Bob  began.  So  silly! 
All  this  domestic  pose,  'Oh,  she  wants  to  make  a  home  for  Bobo, 
and  for  dear  Bob!'  Bob  had  a  perfectly  good  home,  and  if— 
anything  happens  to  Pa,  I  wouldn't  have  any  objection  to 
putting  Bobo  upstairs,  he's  getting  older  now " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    287 

"I  suppose  Carra'd  be  glad  enough  to  stay  on,  and  look  out 
for  him!"  May  said.  But  this  mysteriously  seemed  to  annoy 
Fanny. 

"I  don't  know  what  she'd  do  or  wouldn't  do!"  she  said, 
shortly.  And  to  Vicky's  deep  disappointment  there  was  no 
talk  of  Europe  that  day.  The  nearest  approach  that  Fanny 
made  to  it  was  when  she  said  nervously:  "A  body  doesn't  know 
what  to  do,  with  things  in  this  state!  It  would  be  a  nice  thing 
for  any  one  to  get  abroad,  and  then  have  their  income  cut  in 
half!" 

"Oh,  you,  Fan,"  May  said,  in  good-humoured  impatience, 
"with  all  Aunt  Jenny's  money!" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Fanny  said,  pale  and  trembling,  and  in  a 
low  tone.  "Millions,  of  course — ha!  Well,  I  just  wish  some  of 
you  good  people — but  we  won't  discuss  it!  Most  of  it's  in  the 
firm,  anyway!" 

"About  a  fifth,"  Stephen  smiled,  baiting  her.  "And  you 
didn't  put  that  in,  your  aunt  did,"  he  reminded  her. 

Vicky  appeared  providentially  at  the  moment,  with  the 
changed  subject  of  lunch. 

Harry's  simple  happiness,  at  this  time,  was  regarded  by  the 
various  branches  of  the  family  with  mingled  annoyance,  scorn, 
and  even  envy.  Fanny,  to  be  sure,  had  a  more  luxurious  home; 
May  had  always  had  a  servant,  often  two.  But  somehow 
Lucy's  complacency,  Bob's  content,  and  Harry's  utter  felicity 
exasperated  them  all.  They  told  each  other  things  about  the 
pretty  cottage  in  Larkin  Street;  they  added  young  Georgie's 
earnings  to  Harry's,  estimated  what  his  share  of  the  mutual 
expenses  cost  Bob. 

The  room  he  awakened  in  every  morning  pleased  Harry;  it 
was  a  simple,  sunny  room.  He  liked  to  hear  Georgie  fussing 
with  Bobo's  buttons  and  strings  in  the  adjoining  room,  to  hear 
Lucy's  bright  voice  among  the  pans  and  plates  of  the  kitchen. 
They  still  babied  him  a  little;  he  had  not  quite  thrown  off  his 
cough.  He  went  out  to  breakfast  at  eight,  walked  across  Polk 
Street  in  balmy  sunshine. 

Everything  would  be  fresh  and  attractive:  damp  sidewalks, 
daintily  stepping  women  at  the  markets,  awnings  flapping  coolly 
over  the  ranged  fish  and  fruit.  Sometimes  he  walked  a 
few  unnecessary  blocks  before  taking  the  Sacramento  Street 
car. 


288    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

He  liked  the  friendship  in  the  firm,  too,  the  general  smile  and 
"Good  morning,  Harry!"  as  he  came  into  the  cluttered,  over- 
crowded office  that  this  miraculously  clever  and  capable  woman, 
Miss  Blum,  managed  so  well.  Many  of  the  clerks  had  begun  in 
Crabtree  and  Company's  office;  the  young  firm  was  already  the 
most  serious  rival  old  Reuben  had.  Harry's  desk  was  on  a  sort 
of  deck  at  the  far  back,  above  the  cool,  oiled,  central  floor  where 
clerks  were  partitioned  off  into  pens,  and  where  Thady,  his 
father's  old  office  boy,  walked  and  reigned.  There  was  a  dirty 
skylight  overhead;  the  whole  place  was  a  jumble  of  temporary 
partitions,  some  painted  white,  some  unpainted,  bundles  of  old 
account  books  and  papers  roped  together,  odd  desks  of  oak,  and 
plain  wooden  tables.  Addresses  were  pencilled  upon  smooth 
bits  of  plaster,  calendars  were  tacked  on  the  walls;  and  dust  lay 
like  plush  upon  the  upper  shelves  of  plain,  built-in  bookcases 
and  lockers. 

A  smell  of  roasting  coffee  would  ascend  to  this  region  every 
morning,  at  about  twelve  o'clock,  just  before  whistles  mellow 
and  shrill  announced  the  noon  rest  to  the  working  city.  Harry 
remembered  this  smell  from  babyhood;  it  had  pleasant  as- 
sociations. He  worked  hard  and  accurately  at  his  ledger,  but 
sometimes  his  simple  pleasantries  immensely  amused  the 
office,  and  Miss  Blum  liked  to  make  him  talk.  Sometimes  at 
noon  he  went  over  to  Crabtree  and  Company's  office — where 
he  would  see  Stephen,  Bob,  and  Bertie.  Bertie  was  proving  to 
be  neither  particularly  useful  nor  particularly  happy  in  the  busi- 
ness; he  still  came  and  went  dutifully,  bored  and  indifferent, 
but  he  had  not,  in  his  father's  phrase,  "taken  hold."  Stephen 
sometimes  wished  that  Victoria  had  been  a  boy;  the  girl  showed 
so  pleasant  an  interest  in  everything  that  touched  Crabtree  and 
Company,  she  had  had  to  be  told,  indeed,  that  she  must  not 
come  into  the  office  on  her  art  lesson  days.  It  was  no  place  for 
her,  Stephen  had  said  kindly,  her  mother  could  always  find  her 
plenty  to  do  with  her  spare  time,  at  home. 

Stephen  was  fretted  afresh  every  time  anybody  spoke  to  Rob 
as  "Crabtree"  or  "Mr.  Crabtree."  If  things  had  gone  differ- 
ently, the  firm  might  have  been  "Brewer  and  Son,"  now!  And 
still  the  old  man  held  on,  and  nothing  definite  could  be  decided 
or  changed. 

"How's  Lucy?"  he  asked,  perfunctorily,  on  a  wet  March  even- 
ing when  he  and  Harry  happened  to  meet  in  the  street.     The 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  289 

warm,  spring-like  February  was  forgotten  in  a  fresh  onslaught 
of  winter,  but  Harry  looked  happy  enough  in  his  old  overcoat. 

"Fine.  And  we  have  the  little  girl  to-night,"  Harry  beamed. 
"Alice — it's  her  free  night.  Lucy  kind  of  likes  to  feed  her  up, 
when  she  gets  a  chance!" 

Blameless  enough;  but  Stephen,  opening  his  umbrella,  looked 
with  dissatisfaction  at  the  light  sheets  of  rain  that  a  spring  gust 
was  blowing  into  sudden  whirls  and  hollows,  along  the  sidewalks. 
It  was  twilight;  the  gas  street  lamps  were  pink  in  blurs  of  dull 

Hgnt- 

"You're  not  afraid  of  that  training  breaking  the  girl  down, 

Harry?"     He  looked  to  see  the  other's  face  cloud. 

"Oh,  she  likes  it!"  Harry  countered  innocently. 

"They  don't  know  what  they  like!"  Stephen  said,  vaguely 
discontented.  "Vicky  gets  notions — wants  to  work.  Run 
away  from  work,  is  what  I  call  it.     Well,  good-night!" 

"Good-night!"  Harry's  rather  hoarse,  happy  voice  called 
back  cheerfully,  as  he  ran  for  his  packed  and  streaming  car,  in 
the  dark.  Stephen  had  a  great  many  worries  and  fears,  but 
Harry  thought  only  of  the  warm  kitchen,  of  Alice  home  and  full 
of  stories  of  the  wards  and  the  nurses,  of  Georgie  and  Rob  play- 
ing cribbage  while  he  admiringly  watched,  and  of  Lucy  scratch- 
ing her  thick  gray  hair  thoughtfully  as  she  worked  out  a  cal- 
culation regarding  the  successful  culture  and  marketing  of 
Belgian  hares. 

He  had  in  his  pocket  a  mica  fish  for  Bobo,  a  fish  that  would 
curl  up  mysteriously  upon  the  palm  of  Bobo's  warm  little  hand. 
Harry  loved  the  little  boy;  he  often  took  Bobo  to  the  Park  on 
Sunday,  as  he  had  taken  Nelly  years  ago,  and  then  Alice  and 
Georgie.  There  was  a  merry-go-round  at  the  park  now,  and 
swings  and  see-saws,  and  a  new  band-stand;  Harry,  getting 
carefully  off  the  Haight  Street  dummy,  with  Bobo,  would  feel 
his  heart  bursting  with  a  joy  as  keen  as  the  child's  own. 

Lucy  had  a  scheme  by  which  Bob  and  Harry  were  to  board 
with  Fanny,  for  the  two  summer  months,  while  she  and  Bobo 
went  down  to  stay  with  Nelly.  As  an  equivalent  for  her  board 
at  the  farm,  she  worked  out  a  careful  table  of  values,  proving 
that  her  assistance  to  Nelly,  in  the  care  of  Nelly's  house  and  her 
three  babies,  would  more  than  compensate  for  the  slight  addi- 
tional expense.  Meals  for  the  hired  men  were  estimated,  and 
hours  for  the  children's  naps  and  play  were  planned. 


290  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

It  was  somewhat  disappointing  to  have  Nelly  write  that 
Rudy's  mother  was  there,  managing  everything,  and  that  as 
Hildegarde  and  Clifford  and  the  baby  had  all  had  whooping- 
cough,  and  were  still  coughing,  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  bring 
Bobo.  It  seemed  to  Lucy  that  Bobo  might  as  well  risk  the 
disease  and  get  over  it,  and  the  thought  of  Rudy's  mother  in 
her  place  made  her  indignant.  She  went  down  for  a  week's 
visit,  in  April,  and  took  Bobo  with  her  as  a  matter  of  course. 
This  was  Lucy's  first  visit  to  her  married  daughter,  and  she 
went  full  of  interest  and  enthusiasm. 

It  was  not  entirely  her  fault  that  the  whole  thing  proved  a 
failure;  conditions  were  against  them  all  from  the  start.  The 
weather  was  real  "fruit"  weather,  burning  hot  still  sunshine 
all  day  long.  Nelly's  babies  were  still  fretful  and  coughing  con- 
vulsively. And  Nelly's  little  house  was  crowded.  When  Bobo 
and  Lucy  came  Rudy  had  to  sleep  in  the  parlour,  on  the  floor, 
Lucy  shared  Nelly's  small  hot  bedroom  with  the  new  baby 
and  Bobo,  and  Mrs.  Sessions  had  the  two  older  children  with 
her  in  what  was  still  called  "  Uncle's  room."  They  were  all 
intensely  uncomfortable. 

Then  Mrs.  Sessions,  while  the  most  patient  and  efficient  of 
household  drudges,  and  simply  indispensable  to  Nelly  in  this 
hot  and  busy  time,  was  a  dismal,  silent  soul,  given  to  recitations 
concerning  cancers  and  abortions,  and  none  too  nice  in  her 
speech.  She  liked,  secretly,  to  make  Nelly  laugh  with  her 
homely  country  phrases,  although  her  leathery,  colourless, 
wrinkled,  sun-and-wind-burned  face  never  betrayed  a  sympa- 
thetic mirth. 

"I  guess  this  feller's  got  a  holler  leg,"  Mrs.  Sessions  would 
say  of  Clifford,  when  he  was  stuffing  at  the  table;  and  once  she 
made  Nelly  laugh  by  rebuking  Rudy,  who  had  scratched  his 
head,  with  the  words:  "Leave  'em  be,  son.  You  hit  something 
your  own  size!" 

She  was  wonderful  with  the  babies,  had  an  instinct  for  the  use 
of  goose-grease  or  licorice  powder,  never  worried  about  them, 
and  seemed  to  have  a  quieting  effect  upon  them.  She  was  the 
old-fashioned  type  of  woman  who  gets  a  wash  out  before  break- 
fast on  Monday  morning,  bakes  pies  by  the  dozen,  and  cakes 
by  the  yard,  and  yet  who  is  seen  in  the  early  afternoon  idle  and 
ruminative  in  a  chocolate  or  stone-gray  percale  and  fresh  apron, 
waiting  for  the  arrival  of  supper  time. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    291 

This  made  her  invaluable  to  Nelly,  and  Nelly  was  always 
dreading  a  hint  of  "Ma's"  departure.  Rudy  had  a  sister 
Mamie,  much  older  than  he,  with  a  husband  of  whom  "Ma" 
merely  said,  in  description,  that  "he'd  oughter  be  hung,"  and 
with  eight  children.  Mrs.  Sessions'  heart  was  really  with 
Mamie,  in  Oregon. 

When  Lucy  came  to  the  ranch,  suddenly  Rudy's  mother 
began  to  seem  the  odd,  cranky,  common  old  woman  she  was. 
Nelly  laughed  at  her  no  more:  instead  she  felt  constantly  shocked 
and  ashamed.  She  was  always  uncomfortable  when  the  two 
older  women  were  together,  and  scarcely  happier  when  she  and 
her  mother  wandered  off  for  walks  or  long  talks  in  the  vegetable 
garden,  leaving  "Ma"  plodding  away  in  greasy  gray  dishwater 
at  the  sink  in  the  hot  kitchen. 

"I  don't  know  what  she's  doing!"  Nelly  would  say  uneasily. 
Lucy  always  answered  heartily: 

"Stop  worrying  about  her,  dear.     She  likes  it!" 

Lucy  criticized  Nelly's  calling  Rudy's  mother  "Ma,"  and  Mrs. 
Sessions  was  scornful  of  the  meat-chopper  and  soap-shaker  that 
Lucy  introduced.  She  continued  to  slop  about  with  a  rag  in 
the  dishwater,  and  she  chopped  meat  with  the  old  circular  knife, 
in  the  round  wooden  bowl;  the  baby  hunched  on  her  hip  even  as 
she  chopped  and  hashed. 

Before  Lucy  had  been  there  three  days  relations  were  strained 
all  round;  Lucy  contemptuous  of  Mrs.  Sessions,  and  Rudy's 
mother  muttering  about  folks  that  had  their  heads  full  of  fool 
notions.  On  the  fourth  day  the  latter  openly  hinted  at  her  own 
departure  for  Mamie  and  Portland,  and  Nelly,  heated  and  tired 
and  nervous,  burst  into  tears.     "Ma"  couldn't  go  until  she  got  a 

"You've  got  your  own  Ma!"  said  Ma  Sessions. 

"Yes,  but  Mama  doesn't  know  one  thing  about  farm  work!" 
Nelly  cried,  too  anxious  to  be  diplomatic. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Lucy  magnificently  decided  to  leave, 
giving  no  reason  beyond  the  observation  that  she  was  merely 
Nelly's  own  mother,  and  consequently  not  as  valuable  as  a  hired 
girl,  she  knew.  No,  she  must  go,  no,  she  must  go,  she  persisted 
brightly.     She  had  written  Papa,  she  must  get  back. 

She  left,  airily  civil,  the  next  day,  and  Nelly,  seated  beside 
Rudy  in  the  surrey,  cried  all  the  way  home.  Against  her  own 
interests  she  upbraided  him  bitterly  for  real  and  imaginary  dif- 


292    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

ferences  in  his  treatment  of  her  mother  and  his  own,  and  Rudy- 
was  not  wise  enough  to  keep  the  peace.  Their  quarrel,  and  the 
cause  of  it,  leaked  out,  and  a  week  later  Mrs.  Sessions  departed 
silently  and  apathetically  to  join  Mamie,  and  Nelly  faced  the 
problem  of  children,  house,  kitchen,  hired  men,  preserving  time, 
chickens,  and  pigs  alone. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHO  is  it?"   whispered   Mrs.   Brewer   anxiously.     The 
front-door  bell,  set  with  other  bells  on  a  line  of  great 
coiled  springs  high  up  on  the  kitchen  wall,  was  still 
convulsedly  shaking.     Its  ringing  clanged  through  the  house. 

"Mama,  I  don't  know!"  Tina  whispered,  also  peering  through 
the  closed  upstairs  shutter,  at  guests  coming  up  the  drive. 

"Oh,  heavens,  where's  Vicky?" 

"Down  there  somewhere!  Sh-h!"  said  Tina  to  Lou,  who  had 
come  cautiously  and  silently  into  the  bedroom;  "it's  somebody 
coming — we  don't  know  who ! " 

"You  look,  Baby!"  Mrs.  Brewer,  her  face  blotched,  her  thin 
gray  hair  in  disorder  from  a  heavy  afternoon  nap,  gathered  her 
combing  sack  about  her,  and  creaked  toward  the  washstand. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  is!"  Lou  rasped,  in  a  loud  -whisper. 
"Listen,  that's  Vick  opening  the  door — she'll  see  'em,  whoever 
they  are!" 

"They  may  be  the  Willy  Murchisons,  from  the  hotel,"  May 
said,  hastily  washing  face  and  arms  with  a  knitted  wash-cloth, 
and  always  expectant  of  advances  from  "society."  "You  jump 
into  something,  Tina  darling,  and  come  down.  Bertie  was  tell- 
ing me  that  they  are  getting  up  dances  there  for  next  winter." 

^  Esme,  who  had  been  lying  down,  arose  at  this  mysterious 
hint  when  it  was  passed  on  by  Lou,  and,  having  "hooked"  her 
younger  sister,  was  hooked  in  turn.  Mother  and  daughters, 
brushed  and  rosy  and  rustling,  descended  the  stairs  together 
fifteen  minutes  later,  to  find  Vicky  and  the  callers  seated  on  the 
chipped  and  shabby  balustraded  front  porch. 

It  was  Kitty  Barbee,  and  her  stout,  friendly,  nervous  mother. 
May's  welcome  congealed  half-spoken,  the  girls  dared  not  look 
at*  each  other.  The  nerve!  calling  on  Mama,  ran  all  their 
thoughts. 

"I've  been  trying  to  get  here  all  summer,"  said  Kitty,  pleas- 
antly but  uncomfortably;  "but  somehow  the  time  flies!" 

2Q3 


294  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Kitty,  in  pink  challis,  with  a  pink  hat,  looked  positively 
beautiful.     But  she  was  far  from  happy. 

"I've  knew  this  place  ever  since  we  come  to  San  Rafael," 
said  Mrs.  Barbee,  having  recourse  to  flattery;  "it  certainly  is  a 
grand  place.  Sometimes  I'd  say  to  Bertie — we're  all  awfully 
fond  of  him — I'd  say  that  I  was  going  to  walk  in,  and  he'd  say 
'Go  ahead,  Mrs.  Barbee,  my  Mama'd  be  pleased  to  have  you!' 
But  I  believe  in  waiting  until  you're  asked — I've  always  said  that 
to  my  children " 

Her  strong,  pleasant  voice  faltered;  there  was  a  faint  murmur 
of  response  from  the  tense  circle  of  the  Brewers.  Esme  had 
recklessly  put  on  her  best  dress,  a  pongee  trimmed  with  rows  of 
narrow  brown  velvet  ribbon.  Tina  had  sacrificed  not  only  her 
fresh  cross-barred  muslin,  but  also  the  starched  petticoat  that 
held  its  full  bell  skirt  so  roundly.  Lou,  their  real  snob,  was 
openly  ungracious  and  impatient  of  this  farce.  The  Barbees 
calling  on  Mama! 

"Didn't  we  have  a  nice  time  that  day  on  the  yacht?"  said 
Kitty  desperately  to  Victoria.  Victoria's  heart  turned  to  water, 
and  her  lips  were  dry. 

"Yes,  didn't  we?"  she  said  faintly,  in  an  agony. 

"I  guess  Bertie  told  you  about  our  friend's  yacht,"  said  Kitty 
innocently,  turning  to  May.  May's  eyes  wandered  to  Victoria, 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  over  their  soft  folds  of  flesh.  She  set 
her  lips  primly,  with  a  vague  motion  of  her  head  that  might  have 
been  either  negative  or  affirmative. 

"I  guess  our  young  people  made  friends  that  day,"  Mrs. 
Barbee  said,  warming;  "it  seems  a  shame,  with  all  the  boys  we 
have  at  our  house,  and  you  living  so  long  here  with  all  these 
girls!;' 

This  appalling  suggestion  and  overture  visibly  froze  May, 
whose  mouth  looked  as  if  the  stiff  automatic  smile  almost  hurt 
it. 

"You — you  live  down  across  the  track,  don't  you?"  Esme 
said,  to  say  something.  Mrs.  Barbee  agreeably  explained 
exactly  where  they  lived.  Victoria's  heart  was  lead.  There 
was  no  talk  of  tea,  no  talk  of  further  meetings.  But  poor  Kitty, 
going,  finally  faltered  out  the  real  reason  for  their  call.  Where 
was  Bertie  these  days?  They  hadn't  seen  him  for  ages.  Tell 
him  not  to  forget  his  old  friends. 

"Well,  Lord,  what  have  they  got  to  be  so  stuck-up  about!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    295 

Mrs.  Barbee  said,  hot  with  hurt  pride,  as  she  and  Kitty  picked 
their  way  homeward  in  the  dust. 

"I  told  you  we  oughtn't  to  go!"  said  Kitty,  bitterly. 

"She  always  did  think  she  was  too  good  for  this  earth!"  her 
mother  said,  of  May.  They  walked  on  for  awhile  in  silence. 
Then  the  older  woman  added  timidly:  "We've  got  a  right  to  call 
there,  Kit.     It  didn't  do  them  no  hurt!" 

"I'd  like  to  kill  them!"  gritted  Kitty,  over  the  agony  of  shame 
and  disappointment  in  her  heart.  "Ma,"  she  faltered,  breaking, 
"  I — I  don't  think  I'm  going  to  get  over  it!  And  he  never  comes 
— now.     He  never  comes!" 

They  were  almost  at  their  own  gate  now;  Mrs.  Barbee  stood 
still  in  amazement.  Kitty  Barbee,  great  big  girl  that  she  was, 
crying  like  a  baby,  and  running  into  the  house! 

For  Victoria  there  was  of  course  immediate  judgment.  The 
gate  had  barely  slammed  upon  the  Barbees  when  her  mother, 
flushed  and  breathing  stormily,  said  quietly: 

"Vicky." 

The  other  girls  lingered,  ostentatiously  occupied. 

"  Sit  down,  Vick.  Let  me  get  the  truth  of  this.  That  Sunday 
that  you  went  off  yachting — was  it  with  the  Barbees?" 

Victoria  was  silent;  looked  down,  looked  up. 

"Yes,  Mama." 

"You  know  how  Mama  feels  about  the  Barbees,  don't  you?" 

Victoria  said  to  herself:  "She  can't  touch  me,  she  can't 
touch  me!     The  Barbees  are  as  good  as  we  are!" 

"Vick,  did  you  hear  Mama?" 

"Yes,  Mama.     But  Bertie " 

"Never  mind  your  brother.  You  knew  you  were  doing 
wrong,  didn't  you,  Vick?" 

Victoria  was  heard  to  murmur  that  she  didn't  see  what  was 
wrong  about  it 

"  What!"  said  May,  not  believing  her  ears. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  was  wrong  about  it,"  Esme  said, 
sharply.  "Letting  dirt-common  people  like  that  come  and  call 
on  us,  and  encouraging  Bertie  so  that  he'll  probably  marry 
Kitty  Barbee,  and  ruin  his  life — and  our  chances — and  making 
Mama  even  talk  to  a  low,  common  woman " 

Vicky  managed  a  scornful  smile.  Stephen,  coming  in  weary, 
and  pleased  to  find  his  womenkind  together  on  the  porch,  was 


296    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

regaled  instantly  with  the  whole  disgraceful  story.  His  brow 
grew  dark  as  he  looked  at  the  sullen,  flushed  face  of  his  second 
daughter. 

Some  day,  he  said,  when  she  remembered  her  lovely  home,  she 
would  wish  that  she  had  died  before  she  brought  such  sorrow  and 
disappointment  to  her  own  family.  She  was  too  big  a  girl  to 
whip,  but  what  she  should  have  had  was  a  good  whipping.  A 
father  and  mother  devoted  to  her,  only  anxious  to  see  that  she 
grew  to  be  a  good  and  lovely  woman 

At  this  point,  to  her  rage  and  self-contempt,  quite  as  if  some 
piece  of  machinery  had  set  it  in  motion,  Victoria's  breast  began 
to  heave  and  she  knew  she  was  going  to  cry.  They  had  come 
into  the  dining  room,  and  she  was  standing  at  the  slide;  the  old 
room  was  softened  by  drawn  shutters,  and  the  table  was  partly 
laid  for  supper.  She  knew  that  Lou  and  Mama  and  Tina  were 
listening  in  the  kitchen.  She  felt  a  deep  wild  hatred  of  father 
and  of  all  her  family. 

"Why,  what  can  be  expected  of  your  younger  sisters,  if  you 
act  this  way,  Vicky?"  her  father  said  sharply.  Victoria  gave  a 
sort  of  snort,  averted  her  face,  choked,  and  fled  blindly.  Stephen 
went  on  upstairs  to  wash  his  hands  for  supper,  and  May,  well 
satisfied,  told  her  other  daughters  that  she  thought  Papa  had 
made  some  impression  upon  Vick — poor  Vick. 

Victoria  went  out  through  the  big  bare  stable  yard,  where 
neglected  yellow  grass  was  shining  redly  in  the  sunset,  and  up 
past  the  currant  bushes,  and  behind  the  barn.  For  the  past 
year  or  two  the  Brewers  had  kept  neither  a  man  nor  a  cow,  and 
the  place  smelled  sweet  and  dry,  rust  had  grown  thick  over  the 
abandoned  plough  and  the  harrow.  Grandpa  had  sold  the 
pasture,  and  it  had  been  divided  into  building  lots,  and  was 
ornamented  with  a  real  estate  agent's  sign,  offering  terms.  Papa 
had  put  a  three-plank  fence  in  here,  close  to  the  old  cowshed,  and 
Victoria  leaned  on  the  fence,  and  soothed  herself  with  a  con- 
templation of  the  rapidly  encroaching  neighbourhood. 

A  pleasant,  unpretentious  little  six-room  cottage  had  been 
built  on  one  of  the  lots,  and  the  girl  liked  to  study  at  close  range 
the  happiness  of  the  young  bride  and  groom  who  were  so  busy 
with  their  new  life  there.  Their  little  dry  rows  of  onions  and 
radishes,  their  amateurish  clothesline  that  fell  so  often,  their 
short  length  of  garden  hose  with  which  young  Mr.  Torrey  tried 
with  manful  stretching  of  his  arm  to  reach  the  uttermost  limits 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  297 

of  their  domain — all  this  raw  little  study  of  poverty,  love,  and 
courage  fascinated  Victoria.  Little  Mrs.  Torrey  was  very 
pretty,  completely  absorbed  in  the  novelty  and  delight  of  being 
a  wife  and  a  housekeeper;  she  spent  the  hours  that  Eric  was 
away  in  rapturous  plans  for  his  return,  and  her  timid  little  essays 
in  muffins  and  gelatines  kept  her  for  hours  in  her  playhouse 
kitchen. 

To-night  they  were  climbing  on  a  barrel  to  take  turns  peep- 
ing into  a  bird's  nest  that  had  been  discovered  wedged  in  next 
to  the  rain  spout.  The  house  was  too  new  for  vines,  but  next 
year  there  would  be  vines,  as  trembling  tendrils  carefully  twisted 
about  strings  and  faltering  up  from  the  dry  soil,  already  at- 
tested. 

Vick  heard  them  laugh,  and  heard  their  murmurs.  Eric 
Torrey  boldly  kissed  his  wife  as  they  went  up  the  three  narrow 
steps  to  the  microscopic  back  porch. 

"  You're  too  big  a  girl  to  whip,  but  you  ought  to  have  a  good 
whipping!"  her  father  had  said.  Her  face  burned  angrily. 
She  was  indeed  too  big  a  girl  to  whip;  no  man  ought  ever  to  whip 
a  girl!  Her  mother  had  often  whipped  her,  years  ago,  when 
she  was  a  child,  and  once  when  she  was  quite  grown — thirteen, 
her  father  had.  She  remembered  the  last  occasion;  she  was 
punished  for  being  "saucy"  to  her  mother.  May,  as  not  in- 
frequently occurred,  had  threatened  to  tell  Papa,  and  this  once 
had  kept  her  word,  and  had  reserved  judgment  until  Stephen 
came  home. 

Resentment  and  shame  for  this  old  outrage  burned  fresh  in 
Victoria's  heart  to-night,  and  an  actual  physical  thrill  went 
through  her  body.  She  remembered  her  mother's  triumphant 
silence  all  through  the  long  afternoon.  She  had  never  sup- 
posed her  father  would  whip  a  big  girl  of  thirteen,  especially  as 
Bertie  and  Tina,  if  not  equally  impudent,  had  somewhat  shared 
the  offence.  But  her  father  had  led  her  into  his  room,  and  had 
spanked  her  with  a  grieved  deliberation  and  solemnity  that  she 
never  remembered  without  shamed  resentment. 

Now  she  was  too  big  to  whip.  But  his  words  whipped  her: 
his  intimation  that  she  was  not  to  be  trusted  away  from  the 
parental  judgment  and  care.  She  watched  the  silhouette  of 
Eric  Torrey  lighting  the  kitchen  lamp,  and  wondered,  if  Amy 
Torrey  ever  had  a  girl  baby,  if  he  would  whip  it.  She  suspected 
that  there  were  great   hopes   in   the   little    cottage,    and   was 


298    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

watching  with  deep  attention  for  some  confirmation  of  her 
suspicion. 

When  she  went  back  to  the  house,  supper  was  over,  and  every- 
one ignored  her.  Bertie  was  home,  and  merely  reproached  her, 
in  a  scornful  aside,  for  "showing  'em  that  she  cared. "  Victoria 
dried  dishes,  and  afterward  carried  a  plateful  of  dainties  up  to 
her  room,  established  herself  in  bed,  and  lighted  her  lamp.  She 
felt  sulky,  nervous,  and  apprehensive.  Friendly  relations  had 
to  be  established  with  every  separate  member  of  the  family,  and 
she  was  in  no  mood  for  peace-making. 

'In  the  next  few  days  her  attitude  of  cold  resentment  troubled 
her  mother,  who  kept  up  a  constant  little  stream  of  allusions  and 
explanations.  Poor  Papa,  so  worried  about  the  business,  poor 
Papa,  who  had  tried  so  hard  to  wean  Bertie  away  from  this 
Barbee  girl,  poor  Papa,  practically  carrying  Grandpa  and  Uncle 
Rob  and  all  the  responsibility  of  the  firm 

Victoria  listened  with  a  set,  mutinous  face.  Suddenly  they 
all  bored  her  profoundly,  these  amiable  young  women  who 
were  her  sisters,  this  stupid,  fussing  man  and  his  wife  who 
could  control  her  actions,  her  thoughts  almost,  who  could  cripple 
and  intimidate  her  very  spirit.  All  very  well  as  mere  acquaint- 
ances, these  Brewers,  but  why  should  a  healthy,  energetic, 
youthful  human  being  be  irrevocably  tied  to  them? 

The  ready-made  affections  that  had  contented  her  from  baby- 
hood dropped  now  like  dropping  veils,  and  she  eyed  her  family 
with  a  dispassionate  coolness  that  would  have  horrified  May, 
and  that  actually  frightened  Victoria  herself. 

Her  father's  smooth  pink  lower  lip,  showing  above  his  beard; 
her  mother's  fluttering,  loyal,  ignorant  criticism  of  Rob  and 
young  Fenderson;  Tina,  solemnly  making  a  baked  custard  for 
her  friend  Grace  and  Grace's  dear  husband;  Lou,  furiously  run- 
ning the  sewing-machine  over  the  chaliis  she  meant  to  wear  to 
Daisy  Baker's  engagement  luncheon — these  all  filled  her  with 
utter  ennui.  As  for  Bertie,  whose  disgusting,  selfish  meanness 
to  Kitty  Barbee  had  caused  all  this  trouble,  and  who  was  es- 
caping scot-free,  her  old  childish  jealousy  flamed  up  against  him, 
and  she  felt  that  she  hated  him. 

"Bertie,  don't  you  like  Kitty  any  more?" 

"Sure  I  do.  I  always  will.  But  Papa  and  Mama  hated  me 
to  go  there " 

"Yes,  and  a  lot  of  difference  that  would  make!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    299 

Bertie  had  indeed  entirely  outgrown  Kitty  now,  Kitty,  whose 
nonsense  never  went  beyond  a  kiss  or  a  disputed  embrace.  He 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mina  Eisenwein,  young  Fender- 
son's  stenographer,  and  his  days  were  one  long  agony  of  appre- 
hension as  to  just  how  strong  a  hold  Mina  had  upon  him.  A  few 
weeks  of  stolen  and  forbidden  intimacy  with  Mina  had  passed 
lightly  over  his  head,  but  now,  when  Mina  met  him  in  the  office 
with  red-rimmed,  reproachful  eyes,  when  Mina  said  that  her 
sister  said  she  was  a  fool  not  to  go  straight  to  Mr.  Stephen 
Brewer,  and  tell  him  the  whole  story,  poor  Bertie  began  to  spend 
feverish  days  and  wakeful  nights,  and  to  wonder  what  else  in 
his  life  had  ever  seemed  to  him  worth  worrying  about. 

Mina  was  a  pale,  homely  little  creature,  with  red,  red  lips. 
Bertie  never  would  have  seen  her  at  all  but  for  the  necessity  of 
carrying  opened  mail  into  Tom  Fenderson's  office  every  day. 
And  somehow,  seeing  her  every  day,  she  grew  to  seem  first  in- 
teresting, then  attractive,  then  irresistible,  and  there  had  been  a 
few  costly  weeks  when  the  thought  of  her,  and  the  memory  of 
her,  had  never  been  out  of  his  head.  But  now  the  only  desire 
Bertie  had  in  connection  with  Mina  was  an  ardent  one  that  she 
might  be  painlessly  and  instantaneously  killed  by  an  accident 
of  some  sort. 

She  never  was  five  minutes  late  at  the  office  but  what  his 
heart  rose  on  a  great  wave  of  hope.  But  she  always  came  quietly 
and  pleasantly  in,  hanging  the  black  hat  with  the  three  yellow 
roses  upon  its  usual  nail,  and  straightening  the  wide  "  berthas " 
of  her  thick  green  serge  waist.  And  Bertie  worried  and  worried 
and  worried,  without  knowing  what  to  fear  or  what  to  hope. 

Victoria's  championship  of  Kitty  infuriated  him.  He  liked 
little  Kitty,  with  whom  his  old  flirtation  had  a  misty  purity  and 
beauty,  regarded  in  this  new  and  sordid  light.  But  he  could  no 
more  turn  back  to  Kitty  than  to  the  holland  blouses  and  wooden 
horse  of  his  babyhood.  He  could  not  even  go  to  see  Kitty,  and 
May,  seeing  him  thoughtful  in  the  evenings,  reading  Scott  at 
last,  rejoiced  that  her  darling  only  son  was  safe  from  the  ma- 
chinations of  women,  for  awhile  at  least.  She  was  triumphant, 
remembering  Kitty's  call. 

"That  sort  of  girl  may  have  a  temporary  fascination  for  a 
boy,"  she  told  the  listening  girls,  "but  it  is  not  of  long  dura- 
tion!" 

Victoria  spent  the  autumn  in  brooding  and  planning.     She 


3oo    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

was  twenty-six:  she  would  never  marry.  But  she  must,  she 
would,  do  something.  She  wrote  to  a  business  college  for  its 
folder;  she  went  into  a  railroad  office  and  priced  a  ticket  to  New 
York.  On  one  of  the  new  "vestibuled"  trains.  The  clerk  was 
polite;  he  pencilled  lightly  and  adeptly:  so  much  plus  so  much 
plus  so  much.     It  was  not  so  great  a  sum! 

Finally  Victoria  began  to  talk  of  a  special  course  at  the 
California  University. 

Her  father  forbid  this  dream  sternly.  Mixed  colleges  were 
"hotbeds  of  immorality,"  he  said.  If  any  girl  anywhere  in  a 
certain  house  he  knew  aboutjiid  any  spare  time,  suppose  she 
did  some  gardening?  Things  were  beginning  to  look  pretty 
shabby  outside.  And  how'apfout  apple  jelly?  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  hadn't  had  any  real  good,  old-fashioned  apple  jelly 
for  a  long  time! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ESME  took  the  centre  of  the  stage,  immediately  after 
Christmas,  with  a  siege  of  typhoid  fever.  The  mere 
word  was  enough  to  make  May  faint,  and  to  send  the 
other  three  girls  whispering  and  awed  about  the  silent  house. 
Esme  was  moved  to  the  third  floor,  feverish,  uncomfortable,  but 
amused  at  the  excitement,  and  Alice,  just  graduated,  came  over 
to  take  Esme  as  her  first  case. 

All  this  was  thrilling  and  upsetting  and  interesting.  Vicky 
did  not  see  the  justice  of  letting  Alice  run  all  the  risk,  if  risk  there 
were,  but  everyone  else  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she 
should  live  upstairs,  come  to  the  table  when  meals  were  over,  and 
take  her  airings  on  the  cupola  porch,  or  alone  in  the  garden.  For 
the  first  week,  May  quite  frequently  went  upstairs  for  long 
visits  with  the  invalid. 

And  then,  as  if  enough  hadn't  happened,  as  Tina  said.  May 
broke  her  arm.  Just  a  slip  on  the  kitchen  floor  that  Annie  was 
washing,  and  down  she  went,  and  when  she  got  up  it  was  a 
queerly  dangling  left  arm.  Lou  got  great  credit  in  the  family 
councils  for  being  the  one  to  notice  it. 

"/  was  too  much  wrapped  up  in  Mama's  faintness,',  Tina 
said,  a  hundred  times.  "I  didn't  think  of  anything  but  the  way 
she  was  laughing  and  crying!     Imagine!" 

"I  daresay  I  was  a  little  hysterical,"  May  always  supplied, 
smiling  faintly,  from  the  couch. 

"Oh,  I  saw  it  instantly,"  Lou  would  say.  "And  I  said,  'Oh, 
Mama,  your  arm  I'" 

May  was  able  to  move  about  a  little,  but  the  arm  must  not 
be  strained;  she  spent  a  great  deal  of  her  time  on  the  couch. 
And  Vicky,  to  her  almost  unbearable  gratification,  was  ap- 
pointed to  sickroom  service  in  May's  place.  Vicky  must  wear 
her  percale  dresses,  and  somewhat  keep  away  from  the  others 

Victoria  did  her  part  nobly.  She  would  have  liked  a  far  more 
Jieroic  isolation.     She  and  Alice  became  close  friends,  talking 

301 


3o2    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

softly  in  the  winter  nights,  while  Esme  muttered  and  tossed, 
and  branches  clicked  coldly  on  the  elm  trees,  outside  in  the  dark. 
There  were  two  coal-oil  stoves,  upstairs,  and  Victoria  always 
associated  their  faint  odour  with  Esme's  illness;  and  with  those 
nights  in  the  dimly  lighted,  softly  warmed  sickroom,  with  the 
disks  of  golden  glow  from  the  lamp  and  stove  shining  on  the  low, 
mansard  ceiling. 

Esme  was  not  very  ill;  presently  she  had  reached  the  ravenous 
stage;  windows  were  opened  to  a  warm  February,  and  Alice 
went  home.  But  before  she  went  she  presented  her  Uncle 
Stephen  with  a  neatly  written  bill:  three  weeks'  professional 
services;  seventy-five  dollars. 

Stephen  was  puzzled;  he  smiled,  frowned  faintly,  looked  with 
quizzical  eyes  at  Alice,  and  folded  the  little  bill  carefully.  That 
night  he  showed  it  to  May. 

"You  don't  suppose  it's — serious?"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  suppose  so,"  May  answered,  uncertainly.  "But  it 
seems  an  outrageous  sum  for  a  girl  that  age  to  have,  all  her  own! 
Our  girls  have  never  had  anything  like  that." 

"I  don't  mind  showing  Lucy's  girl  that  I  appreciate  her 
devotion  and  her  work,"  Stephen  said,  disapprovingly.  "But 
she  had  her  meals — everything.  This  is  preposterous,  it 
seems  to  me.  What  did  we  give  Lucy,  when  your  aunt  died, 
May?" 

"Twenty,"  May  said  instantly.  But  for  once  she  was  in- 
clined to  be  progressive.  "I  think  twenty-five  a  week's  the 
regular  rate,  Steve,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  Stephen  said,  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  helpless, 
"we'll  see!"  May  heard  no  more  of  it,  but  she  repeated  this 
much  to  Vicky,  and  Vicky  writhed  to  think  that  little  Alice 
Crabtree  had  fitted  herself  so  easily  to  earn  so  enormous  a  sum! 
Seventy-five  dollars!  What  couldn't  one  do  with  it!  If  she, 
Vick,  ever  had  it,  she  would  go  to  New  York  and  go  on  with 
her  voice  culture.  She  had  sometimes  sung  to  amuse  Esme, 
in  the  long  winter  twilights,  and  everyone — even  downstairs — 
had  said  that  her  voice  sounded  sweet. 

Fanny,  long  before  this,  had  come  to  see  the  invalids,  but 
May  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  critical  on  the  subject  of  her 
tardiness;  why,  she  had  broken  her  arm  nearly  three  weeks 
ago! 

"I'm  too  much  accustomed  to  sick  calls,  my  dear,  to  push  my 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    303 

way  in  here  before  I'm  wanted, "  Fanny  countered  lightly.  "This 
isn't  my  first  visit  to  an  invalid!" 

"Doesn't  she  look  lovely,  Fanny?" 

"Why,  she  just  looks  wonderful!" 

"Mama,"  said  Esme  happily,  "this  morning — to  show  you 
how  well  I  am! — Doctor  Underwood  just  stood  there  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  and  he  wagged  his  head,  didn't  he,  Vick? — and  he 
said,  'Well,  young  lady,  I  think  you  are  fooling  us  all — there's 
nothing  the  matter  with  you/'" 

"Used  to  go  to  school  with  his  wife,"  said  Fanny,  hitting  the 
end  of  her  nose. 

"I  imagine  his  wife  is  rather — unsympathetic,"  Esme  said. 

"When  I  think — of  all  times  for  me  to  break  my  arm!"  May 
mourned.  "However,  Vicky  has  been  wonderful.  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done  without  her." 

"Well,  perhaps  somebody  will  kidnap  your  wonderful  Vicky, 
one  of  these  days,"  Fanny  said,  fired  to  rather  rash  speech  by 
May's  complacent  air  of  possession.  "I  know  somebody  who's 
beginning  to  get  a  sort  of  craving  for  travel  again.  I  suppose 
that  trip  with  Aunt  Jenny,  twenty  years  ago,  sort  of  spoiled  me! 
Well,  if  I  go — I  can't  go  alone,  can  I?"  she  ended,  in  innocent 
inquiry. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny!"  Victoria  said,  giving  her  a  little  push. 

"Well,  can  I?" 

"Fanny,  dear,  you'll  raise  the  child's  hopes  to  fever  pitch!" 
said  May,  with  rich  maternal  protest. 

"Poor  little  me,  with  no  one  to  talk  to!"  Fanny  said,  with 
a  whimsical  face.  "On  the  big  liner — you've  never  seen  a 
stateroom,  Vicky,   little  white  berths,   and   a  port-hole " 

"Oh,  wonderful!"  exulted  Vicky. 

"And  little  white  basins  not  so  wonderful,"  Fanny  suggested 
naughtily.  Both  the  girls  and  May  laughed  outright.  Victoria 
was  in  wild  spirits  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  many  days. 

One  April  day,  in  an  unusual  mood  of  hope,  she  dashed  off 
a  note  to  Aunt  Fanny.  It  was  written  at  home,  where  Esme 
was  sitting  out  in  the  sunshiny  garden  now,  and  all  the  family 
gathered  about  her  in  her  convalescence.     Victoria  wrote: 

Dearest  Aunt  Fanny, 

I  have  been  thinking  and  thinking  of  what  you  said  a  week  or  two  ago,  and  of 
course  I  am  just  wild  about  the  idea.  If  I  could  once  get  even  as  far  as  New 
York,  I  believe  that  I  would  not  much  longer  be  a  burden  to  you,  as  I  have 


3o4    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

some  plans  that  might  keep  me  there:  music,  I  mean.  So  that  if  you  even  got 
east  and  then  Grandpa  got  ill,  or  your  plans  changed,  I  would  certainly  be  no 
burden  to  you. 

There  was  more  in  the  same  strain,  but  it  was  these  fatal 
lines  that  brought  Fanny  flying  over  to  San  Rafael  two  days 
later,  aghast  at  their  possible  meaning. 

"Vicky,"  said  her  mother,  patient,  annoyed,  still  with  a 
bandaged  arm;  "what  possessed  you  to  write  such  nonsense  to 
your  Aunt  Fanny?" 

"  What  nonsense?"  asked  Vicky,  with  a  sick  drop  at  her  heart 
and  a  dry  throat. 

"Why "     May  shooed  out  a  few  flies,  shut  the  kitchen 

screen  door,  and  sampled  some  rather  tender  and  broken 
ginger  cakes,  as  she  indicated  the  garden  by  a  backward  ges- 
ture of  her  head.  "Your  aunt's  out  there,"  she  said,  "and  she 
says  you  wrote  her  about  going  to  New  York,  Vicky,  and 
studying  music,  and  I  don't  know  what  all.  What  on  earth 
possessed  you?" 

"Oh,  Mama,  that  was  just  nonsense!"  said  Vicky,  scarlet- 
cheeked. 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  learn  to  outgrow  your  nonsense!"  May 
said,  with  a  sharp  click  of  tongue  and  teeth.  "Come  out  and 
talk  to  your  aunt  now,  and  try  to  act  like  a  sensible  girl!  I 
don't  know  what  Papa  will  say  when  he  hears  of  these  fine  plans 
of  yours!     Where  did  these  plums  come  from,  Tina?" 

"From  the  fruit  Chinaman,  Mama — I  ran  after  him  this 
morning,  because  you'd  forgotten  any  fruit." 

"I  didn't  forget,  Tina.     But  they  looked  too  green!" 

"But  we're  going  to  cook  them,  Mama!" 

"All  right  this  time,  then,  and  I'll  pay  old  John  for  them. 
But  I  don't  like  you  girls  to  act  quite  so  independently,  that's 
all!  Come  out,  now,  Vick,"  May  led  her  second  daughter  out 
to  the  lawn,  where  Esme  was  the  centre  of  a  group  in  the  shade. 
"Here's  this  silly  girl!"  she  said,  indulgently. 

Fanny  flashed  a  laughing  look  at  her  niece. 

"Well,  Vicky,  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  you!"  said  she, 
in -elaborate  alarm.  "Poor  innocent  me,  I  make  a  mild  sug- 
gestion about  perhaps  going  abroad  in  a  year  or  two,  and  here 
comes  a  hoity-toity  letter  about  staying  in  New  York  and 
plans  to  leave  home " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    305 

"I  don't  know  what  got  into  me,"  said  Victoria,  grinning, 
and  embarrassed  by  the  general  laugh. 

"I  should  think  you  didn't!"  Fanny  was  in  high  spirits. 
"And  pray  was  I  to  telegraph  your  poor  parents  that  you  had 
walked  off  from  me,  in  New  York!  Nice  prospect  for  me! 
What  did  you  propose  to  do  in  New  York,  Miss  Rothschild?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !"     Victoria  smiled,  so  that  she  need 

not  cry. 

"She's  a  perfect  child,  Fan,"  May  said,  half  amused  and 
half  annoyed;  "she  hasn't  the  faintest  idea  of  the  perils  and 
dangers  of  the  world!  She  would  leave  her  safe,  happy  home 
to-morrow,  and  plunge  into  any  novelty — just  because  it  was 
new!" 

"Yes.  Well,  then  I  think  her  home  is  very  much  the  best 
place  for  her!"  said  Miss  Fanny,  with  a  decided  toss  of  her 
head.  Vick  presently  went  to  set  the  luncheon  table  with  a 
film  of  tears  over  her  eyes,  and  hatred  and  despair  in  her  heart. 
After  lunch  she  deliberately  neglected  Aunt  Fanny,  and  went 
up  to  the  fence  beyond  the  cowshed.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  little  Mrs.  Torrey  now;  her  pretty  young  face  was 
strained  and  ugly,  her  figure,  under  the  stretched  little  checked 
kitchen  apron,  showed  a  strange  change.  Victoria  saw  her 
often  in  the  spring  dusk,  walking  slowly  along  the  level  blocks 
on  her  husband's  arm.  For  some  reason  not  quite  definable, 
or  at  least  never  defined  by  herself,  the  other  young  woman's 
situation  held  a  fascination  for  Victoria;  she  was  incessantly 
creeping  out  to  the  back  fence  to  study  her,  to  dream  about 
her. 

Fanny  and  May  were  glad  to  be  left  alone;  they  had  several 
burning  topics  to  discuss  in  low  tones.  May  opened  with  the 
great  and  dawning  hope  concerning  Bertie  and  Lola  Espinoza. 
The  Tasheiras'  little  niece  was  out  of  school  now,  staying  with 
her  aunts,  and  apparently  inclined  to  great  friendliness  toward 
the  Brewers.  She  had  come  to  inquire  for  Esme,  on  a  wet 
January  Sunday,  and  had  sat  drying  her  plumed  hat  and  riding 
skirt  by  the  dining-room  fire.  Bertie  had  been — undeniably — 
impressed.  He  had  gone  up  to  see  her  twice,  at  May's  sugges- 
tion, and  she  had  spent  another  Sunday  with  the  Brewers. 

"It  seems  as  if  darling  Esme  were  the  means  of  bringing  the 
greatest  happiness  of  his  life  to  Bertie!"  May  said. 

Fanny  pursed  her  hard  lips,  looked  judicial. 


3o6    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Pretty,  May ?" 

"Well — sweet-looking.     Very  stylish.     Spanishy." 

"H'm!"     Fanny  sniffed. 

"She'll  be  awfully  rich,  Fan!"  May  suggested.  Fanny's 
eyes  lighted. 

"That  old  place  will  never  sell  for  much — too  far  away!" 

"Yes,"  May  said,  "but  her  uncle  in  Buenos  Aires  sends  her 
three  hundred  a  month — has  scads  of  money!" 

"Ridiculous!"  Fanny  said,  her  face  growing  red.  "Girl 
that  age — what  can  she  do  with  it!" 

Both  sisters  mused  upon  the  prospect  of  Bertie  wedded  to 
this  brilliant  future;  then  May  sighed. 

"Bertie's  Mama  isn't  any  too  ready  to  give  her  one  boy  up 
to  anybody!"  she  murmured. 

"Might  be  the  best  thing  for  him,  May,"  Fanny  said.  "He's 
an  innocent  sort  of  boy " 

"Oh,  he's  like  a  girl.  His  sisters  and  I  have  done  that  for 
him!"  May  breathed  thankfully.  "And  she's  just  a  child 
too.     Twelve  years  in  different  convents,  you  know!" 

Then  it  was  time  to  talk  of  Pa's  possible  retirement  from  the 
firm;  May  made  him  eighty-one,  Fanny  eighty-two.  They 
agreed  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  think  of  retiring.  And 
there  was  some  talk  of  Bob  getting  out.  This  made  May's 
heart  leap,  settle  to  a  happier  beat. 

"A  Sacramento  wholesale  grocery  firm  has  made  him  an 
offer,"  Fanny  said.  "He'd  be  up  there  most  of  the  time.  They 
have  a  branch  in  the  city — branches  everywhere.  I'd  be  just 
as  pleased.  Stephen  says  that  he  spends  the  firm's  money 
like  water;  advertising,  and  I  don't  know  what  all!  Steve  would 
be  boss,  then,  sure  enough!" 

"He  has  been  faithful,  Fanny!"  May  said  emotionally,  with 
watering  eyes.  Fanny  made  no  comment. 

"Harry,"  she  changed  the  subject,  "don't  seem  real  well. 
Lucy  was  saying  that  he's  been  coughing  ever  since  he  had  that 
bad  attack  last  winter.  Georgie  was  at  the  house  when  Lou 
was  with  me  last  week,  and  he  said  his  father  didn't  look  well. 
Bob  said  that  he  ought  to  get  into  a  hot  climate." 

"Why,  how  could  he?"  May  said  sensibly.  "He  couldn't 
afford  to  go  alone,  and  certainly  Lucy  couldn't  leave  Alice 
and  Georgie,  and  go  with  him.  Alice  has  to  have  a  home, 
between  cases.     I  don't  see  how  he  could  go  without  a  job. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    307 

They  might  go  to  Nelly's,  but  I  hear  Rudy  Sessions  is  going  to 
sell  the  ranch  and  go  into  a  position.  I  guess  they'll  get  a 
big  price  for  it.  Steve  was  saying  that  seven  hundred  acres 
there  ought  to  bring  in  about  three  hundred " 

"That's  not  much!"  Fanny,  who  had  no  idea  of  farm 
values,  said  promptly,  in  relief. 

"An  acre,"  May  finished  placidly.  Fanny  calculated 
quickly;  scowled. 

"There's  one  thing,"  she  said  firmly,  "if  Harry  goes  south, 
or  anywhere,  I  hope — I  do  hope — I  like  Lucy,  and  I  know 
there's  nothing  wrong,  and  all  that!  But  I  do  hope  she  and 
Bob  Crabtree  won't  consider  keeping  that  Larkin  Street  place 

I  together,  that's  all.     She's  no  relation " 
"I  think  it  looks  awful!"  May  agreed.     "Of  course  there's 
I  Bobo  and  Georgie,"  she  added  with  a  noticeable  lack  of  con- 
viction. 

"Bo bo,  a  child  of  five!"  Fanny  said,  harshly.  "Georgie, 
who  is  away  all  day,  and  goes  to  night  school  most  evenings, 
and  Alice,  off  on  cases  all  the  time!  May,  it  won't  do.  The 
papers  are  only  too  ready  where  prominent  people  are  con- 
:  cerned.  We  shall  have  all  sorts  of  talk — I  spoke  to  Pa  about 
it,  but  you  know  him:  just  laughed!" 

"I'm  surprised  at  Lucy!"  May  observed,  sighing. 
She   held   a   cotton   stocking  high   in   air:  the   darning   ball 
within  it  dropped  duly  to  the  toe.     She  wet  her  fingers  before 
knotting  the  yarn  in  her  needle. 

"Pa's  always   been  scrupulous  about  that  sort  of  thing!" 
she  mused.     "Did  it  ever  strike  you  as  funny,  Fan,  that  Pa 
i  never  married  again?" 

Fanny  tossed  her  head,  her  nostrils  quivered,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

"Ma — she  was  his  only  love,  the  love  of  his  life!"  May  said 
1  softly.  "I  think  of  her  so  often,  now,  Fan,  with  the  girls 
growing  up,  and  this  prospect  for  Bertie — and  I  believe  that 
he  is  the  sort  of  man  who  can  take  care  of  money,  Fan,  spend 
;  it  wisely  and  well,  you  know.  His  marrying  will  be  of  the 
greatest  advantage  to  the  girls,  when  they  marry — and  his 
selfish  old  Mama  must  think  of  that — and  the  girls  will  be  only 
too  generous,  I  know,  in  welcoming  the  dear  little  bride!" 

This  last  was  said  to  Tina  and  Lou,  who  came  out  flushed 
and  weary  from  the  hot  kitchen,  glad  to  settle  in  the  delicious 


308    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

spring  sunlight  on  the  new  emerald  grass,  and  breathe  the  softer 
air.  They  were  turning  down  their  cuffs,  and  unpinning  the 
skirts  they  had  folded  back  across  their  hips,  as  they  came. 

Esme  had  had  a  sleep,  and  presently  moved  languidly  out 
to  the  sweet  new  shade  of  the  leafing  willows,  and  established 
herself  in  pillows.  Vicky,  the  girls  said,  seemed  to  have  gone 
for  a  walk. 

"Lola  telephoned  that  she's  coming  down,  Mama!"  Lou 
said  significantly. 

"Everything  seems  to  be  Lola,  now,"  Fanny  observed  drily. 
Lou  looked  up,  with  a  superior  sort  of  smile. 

"It  seems  the  greatest  year  for  things  happening!"  she  ob- 
served; "you  know  Lily  Duvalette  has  taken  a  house  over  here, 
and  Daisy  is  coming  to  stay  with  her — imagine  the  fun,  for 
me!  Daisy  won't  live  with  her  father  since  he  married  that 
Mrs.  Pringle— " 

"Imagine  him  marrying  his  housekeeper — what  possessed 
him?"  May  mused.  "They  think  she'll  get  everything!  I  saw 
Bernardo  the  other  day,  and  he  says  that  if  she  doesn't  the 
lawyers  will!  My,  my,  my,"  she  continued  contentedly,  "we 
do  seem  so  blessed,  with  nothing  like  that  to  worry  about!" 

Fanny  longed  to  crash  into  her  complacency  with  the  dread- 
ful truth,  but  she  was  afraid.  No  guilty  secret  of  her  own  could 
have  burdened  her  more  than  the  disgusting  facts  about  Pa. 
The  fever  to  get  away  rose  in  her  afresh.  She  rustled  her  silk 
gown,  looked  about  the  attentive  but  busy  little  group,  and 
smiled  with  sudden  intention. 

"May,"  said  Fanny,  laying  her  hand  upon  Esme's,  as  Esme 
lay  dreamily  listening  to  the  talk.  "I  want  you  to  lend  me 
this  girl — for  awhile,  if  the  doctor  thinks  her  naughty  heart  is 
quite  strong  again.  I  will  go  down  to  the  office  this  week,  and 
make  my  arrangements  with  Stephen,  to  be  gone  some  time, 
and  I  think  I'll  get  off  about  the  first  of  August!  How  about 
it,  Esme,  do  you  think  you  can  have  some  fun  with  your  old 
aunt,  for  six  or  eight  months?  She  thinks  she  can — good  girl. 
Dear  me,"  Fanny  interrupted  herself;  smiling  about  the  circle 
innocently;  "what  have  I  done  to  be  hugged  and  kissed  this 
way!  Get  back  in  your  pillows,  you  little  goose,  and  thank 
me,  if  you  like,  when  we  are  going  around  Venice  in  a  gondola, 
or  riding  on  an  omnibus  in  London — Lunnon,  as  I  believe  the 
dudes  call  it!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    309 

"  Fanny,  what  a  fairy  godmother  you  are  to  these  lucky 
girls!" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny— Aunt  Fanny -!w 

"Esme,  you  lucky  thing,  you!"  This  from  the  quite  frankly 
envious  Lou,  who  was  lying  on  her  back  in  the  grass.  Tina 
smiled,  artificially  and  fixedly. 

"This  is  May,"  said  Fanny,  pleased,  "so  that  gives  us  ten 
weeks  to  get  ready,  and  for  this  girl  to  become  entirely  well! 
Ten  weeks!" 

"It  will  be  just  exactly  what  she  needs,  to  rebuild  her,"  May 
said,  eyes  full  of  love  and  happiness  fixed  upon  the  invalid. 

"Mama— Paris!" 

"Think  of  it !     What  a  piece  of  news  for  papa!" 

"And  won't  Vick  be  surprised!" 

"I  don't  know  that  she  will,"  said  Fanny.  "Probably  her 
important  walk  will  seem  far  more  interesting  to  Vicky  than 
anything  poor  I  could  say  or  do.  Let's  hope  Esme  won't  start 
any  nonsense  about  studying  music  in  New  York!  Well,  I 
must  get  that  four  o'clock  train.     Who's  going  to  walk  with 

Pe;" 

"No,  Esme,  you  must  rest,  you  remember  what  the  doctor 
said  about  your  heart,"  May  said.  "I  will,  Fanny!  part  of 
the  way  anyway.     How  about  Lou?" 

"Not  if  you  want  date  pudding  to-night,"  Lou  yawned  in- 
differently. 

"Oh,  I  mustn't  interfere  with  the  date  pudding!"  Fanny 
exclaimed. 

"She  didn't  mean  that,  Fanny!  Tina,  you  come  with 
Mama  and  Aunt  Fanny!" 

"All  right,  I  want  to  stop  and  see  Grace,  anyhow!"  Tina 
agreed,  pulling  herself  up  sleepily.  "I  don't  know  whether  I 
told  you,  Aunt  Fanny,"  said  Tina,  as  they  walked  along  toward 
the  gate,  "but  I  told  Mama  and  the  girls,  I  know,  that  Mr. 
Yelland  wrote  seven  articles  a  few  weeks  ago,  short  editorials 
and  book  reviews,  you  know,  and  Grace  and  I,  just  for  a  lark, 
sent  them  to  the  Coast  Churchman,  and  they  took  every  one, 
imagine"  Tina  laughed  joyously.  "Wasn't  that  quite  a  com- 
pliment to  him — I  thought  it  was!"  she  resumed.  "Grace 
was  so  funny  with  him — so  cool,  I  mean.  I  was  quite  frightened 
when  he  came  home  with  the  paper,  and  his  name  among  the 
contributors!  'Well,  Galahad,'  she  said — she  calls  him  Galahad 


310    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

— 'why  did  you  write  them  if  you  didn't  want  them  printed V 
Of  course  he  hadn't  one  word  to  say.  He  says  that  he  has  al- 
ways wanted  to  write,  even  since  he  was  a  little  boy;  always  was 
scribbling!  So  now  of  course  he  and  Grace  are  planning  that 
he  will  write  books,  on  religious  topics,  of  course,  and  some  day 
take  little  Vera  and  go  to  England— Oxford,  he's  mad  about 
Oxford.  And  wouldn't  it  be  a  lovely  life  for  him,  just  what  he 
loves!  Of  course  the  Coast  Churchman  doesn't  pay  any- 
thing, but  lots  of  them  do!" 

A  rider  dashed  up  to  the  gate,  as  they  went  through  it,  and 
Tina  flushed  with  excitement  as  she  introduced  her  aunt  to 
Miss  Lola  Espinosa.  The  girl  gave  her  hand  with  a  sort  of 
saucy  readiness,  her  left  hand  gathering  up  the  thick  folds  of 
her  habit,  her  dark  eyes  brilliant  under  a  small  riding  hat. 
She  had  flung  the  rein  over  the  gatepost,  as  she  dismounted, 
and  now  she  pushed  the  plastered,  heavy  black  hair  from  her 
forehead,  her  full  high  young  breast  still  heaving  from  the 
exercise. 

Her  speech  was  a  rush  of  vowels,  all  consonants  slurred  or 
ignored,  the  eloquent  eye  and  mouth  carrying  her  meaning 
even  when  words  failed. 

"Well,  my  gracious,  Tina,  how  many  aunts  you  got?"  she 
laughed.  "Aunts  and  aunts,  and  sisters  and  sisters — such  big 
family  scares  me  most  to  death!  I  got  so  many  aunts  now — 
how  do  you  do — Miss  Crabtree? — But  the  fat  one  last  week  was 
also  Miss  Crabtree ?" 

"That  was  Aunt  Lucy,  Lola,  Mrs.  Crabtree.  But  this  is 
Miss  Crabtree!"  Tina  said,  laughing,  with  an  indulgent  glance 
at  Aunt  Fanny  that  invited  her  to  smile,  too,  at  this  engaging 
child.  Fanny's  expression,  however,  was  one  of  cold  scrutiny. 
"The  girls  are  up  there  under  the  willow,"  Tina  added.  "Go 
right  up.  I'm  coming  straight  back.  Isn't  she  fascinating? 
I  think  she  is,  perfectly  fascinating,"  Tina  went  on,  when  the 
girl  had  left  them  in  the  hot  road. 

"Very  fascinating — extremely!"  Fanny  said  grimly.  "I 
daresay  she'll  get  sense  as  she  gets  older!" 

May  laughed  merrily,   and  Tina  also  laughed  reluctantly. 

"You  are  a  case,  Fan!"  said  the  older  sister  amusedly. 
Fanny  smiled,  somewhat  mollified,  but  still  scornful. 

"Why  didn't  Bertie  pick  out  a  Chinese,  if  an  American  girl 
isn't  good  enough  for  him!"  she  said,  her  lips  twitching  to 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    311 

smile.  But  before  the  others  could  share  her  smile,  Tina  ut- 
tered a  pleased  exclamation,  and  ran  ahead  of  them  to  meet  a 
sweet,  plain  young  woman  in  a  blue  cotton  dress,  who  was 
slowly  walking  along  the  road,  leading  a  pale  little  staggering 
baby. 

"There's  Grace!"  cried  Tina,  "and  the  baby!  Hello,  sweet- 
heart," she  said,  on  her  knees  beside  the  heavy-headed  child. 
j  Vera  twisted  her  head  sideways  and  began  to  cry  quietly. 
I  "See,"  said  Tina  eagerly,  "Grace  makes  her  these  little  aprons, 
I  Aunt  Fanny,  and  then  has  these  little  embroidered  collars 
ready  to  button  right  in  and  make  the  darling  baby  all  dressed 
up.  Yes,  dat's  what  see  is,"  Tina  repeated  affectionately  to  the 
child,  who  was  now  shyly  smiling,  "all  dessed  up!" 

"With  so  much  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Yelland,  in  a  voice  so  low, 
pure,  and  sweet  that  it  was  almost  startling,  "a  poor  parson's 
wife  must  have  recourse  to  many  a  little  makeshift!  No,  not 
poor,"  she  interrupted  herself  quickly,  "but  rich  in  every- 
thing that  is  truly  worth  while  in  life!  You  were  coming  to  me, 
Ernestine?  I  knew  Vernon  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  the 
crucifier's  surplice.  Did  you  get  the  book  at  the  library?  We 
are  not  sure,"  she  added,  turning  with  a  smile  to  the  older, 
"that  the  crucifier's  surplice  is  just  like  the  others,  and  in  this, 
as  in  so  many  things,  Ernestine  and  I  can  be  of  real  use  to  a 
busy  and  a  tired  man!" 

"Grace,  you  do  half  of  everything!"  Tina  said  impulsively. 

"Ah,  no,  not  everything!"  Grace  said  reverently.  "There 
are  doors  I  dare  not  open.     The  ministry — that  is  his  own!" 

"He  lives  for  his  parish,"  May  said  kindly. 

"Oh,    Mrs.    Brewer!"    the   young   wife    said,    with    shining 

eyes.     "And  if  you  knew  him  as  I  do!     He  is "  Grace's 

voice  thickened,  she  blinked  away  a  mist  of  tears,  and  smiled 
at  herself.  "He  really  is  the  most  Christlike  man  I  have  ever 
known!"  she  said,  seriously  and  bravely. 

Victoria  heard  the  great  news  of  Europe  from  Esme. 

"It's  sickening  that  you  shouldn't  be  the  one,  Vick,"  Esme 
said,  fingers  upon  Vicky's  wrist. 

"Oh,  nonsense!  I — to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  loathe  Aunt 
Fanny  anyway!     She  gives  me  a  pain!" 

"Vicky!" 

"Well,  she  does.     I  don't  mean  that  I  wouldn't  go  abroad 


3i2    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

with  her.  I'd  go  abroad  as  a  lion  with  a  zoo,  to  get  away  from 
the  fuss  about  Bertie,  and  Mama  already  talking  about  giving 
Lola  all  the  silver,  and  the  clock,  and  all  that!  But  not  with 
Aunt  Fanny.     I'm  going  to  get  away,  too." 

"But  how?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how,  but  you'll  see!  Esme,  I'll  miss 
you!" 

"I've  grown  awfully  fond  of  you,  Vicky.  I  used  to  be  so 
jealous  of  you.  But  now  there's  nothing  good  that  I  wouldn't 
be  glad  to  have  you  have!  And  cheer  up,  Vick,  things  are 
changing  all  the  time,  now,  and  your  turn  will  come." 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  ask  Papa  to  send  me  as  far  as  New 
York  with  you  and  Aunt  Fanny,  and  let  me  take  music  lessons 
there  while  you  are  abroad,  and  then — if  I  didn't  make  good, 
come  back  with  you  whenever  you  come!" 

"He  wouldn't,  though!" 

"Well,  look  what  he  did  for  Bertie — his  bicycle,  and  two 
months  in  the  east,  and  all  that!" 

"Yes,  but  Bertie's  a  boy!" 

"I  know,  but  I'm  going  to  ask  him!" 

"Well,  ask  him,"  Esme  conceded  half-heartedly. 

But  Victoria  never  got  so  far.  For  that  very  same  evening 
Stephen  spoke  to  her  in  no  uncertain  terms,  when  she  came  in 
to  the  evening  lamp,  after  the  supper  dishes  were  put  away. 

"Now,  look  here,  Vick,"  said  her  father,  sensibly,  looking  up 
from  his  Report,  "your  mother  tells  me  that  you  wrote  some 
nonsense  to  your  aunt  Fanny,  without  consulting  either  of  us, 
some  high-school-girl  rubbish  about  studying  music  in  New  York, 
or  what  not,  and  leaving  her  stranded  there — I  didn't  quite 
understand  it,  and  I  doubt  if  you  did!  The  result  is  that 
•  Fanny  naturally  turns  to  Esme  when  she  wants  a  companion 
— your  ideas  don't  inspire  your  aunt  with  any  particular  con- 
fidence, and  I  don't  blame  her!  Now,  Vick,  you're  a  fine,  dear, 
sweet,  helpful  girl.  You've  got  high  spirits — that's  fine. 
You  take  an  interest  in  music — in  art — all  that  is  very  well. 
But  how  about  your  family  getting  some  of  the  good  of  this  ? 
We'd  like  a  little  music,  and  a  little  of  this  cleverness  of  yours 
— right  here  in  this  family!  Your  place — and  this  is  just  j 
what  I  want  you  to  get  through  your  head,  Vick — your  place 
is  here,  with  your  mother  and  sisters.  You  have  a  lovely 
home;   all   right,   appreciate  it.     There   are   a   thousand   girls 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    313 

your  age  in  New  York  to-night  who  would  go  down  on  their 
knees  and  thank  God  for  a  supper  like  this  one,  and  Mama, 
and  Tina,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  to  love  and  protect  her!  Just 
get  rid  of  this  foolishness  about  running  off  somewhere,  to  do 
some  imaginary  heroic  thing  that  you  can't  do  here.  My  dear 
child,  if  you  want  to  do  something,  it  would  please  me  very 
much  to  have  you  make  your  father  a  batch  of  doughnuts  that 
didn't  trickle  batter  over  his  poor  old  hand " 

There  was  a  titter  from  the  listening  girls  and  an  audible 
chuckle  from  May.  They  were  not  unsympathetic  with  Vicky, 
and,  standing  dumb  and  rosy  a  few  feet  inside  the  doorway, 
she  knew  it.  It  was  so  rarely  that  Papa  grew  facetious  in 
these  days! 

"There  are  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  do  here,  I  don't 
have  to  tell  a  clever  girl  like  you  that,"  Stephen  pursued,  more 
mildly.  "Cook — sew — go  on  long  walks — cultivate  the  gar- 
den— water  the  lawn!  We — we  may  have  changes  here,  we 
may  have  a  new  sister  for  you  to  love — all  that  is  the  normal 
life  of  a  well-to-do  young  woman.  But  this  strong-minded 
stuff !" 

He  turned  back  to  his  paper.  But  she  knew  he  was  not 
done. 

"Pattern  yourself  upon  your  mother,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"You  could  not  do  better!" 

Later  May  told  him  that  she  thought  such  a  talk,  coming 
from  such  a  father,  might  influence  a  girl's  whole  life.  Stephen, 
now  in  bed,  bit  at  his  full,  smooth  under  lip,  above  the  graying 
beard,  and  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"Vicky's  a  fine  spirited  girl  and  will  make  some  man  a 
magnificent  wife,  some  day,"  he  said,  with  a  father's  pride, 
"but  she  needs  guidance!" 

"Oh,  Steve! — I  forgot  to  tell  you!"  May  said  happily,  sud- 
denly reminded  by  some  obscure  train  of  thought  of  Rob. 
"Fanny  told  me  to-day  that  Rob  may  resign  from  the  busi- 
ness— isn't  that  remarkable?  Says  Pa  said  so — or  almost  said 
so!" 

To  her  consternation  her  husband's  face  darkened  to  an  ex- 
pression almost  apoplectic. 

"Bob  is  going  to  get  out!"  he  said,  in  a  blank  pause. 

"Why,  Steve — I  thought  you  always — I  thought — it  was 
only  Fanny  anyway — but  why — why ?"  stammered  May. 


3H    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Didn't  you  always — when  Rob  first  came  out — I  certainly 
understood  then " 

"Exactly  what  did  Fanny  say?"  said  Stephen,  heavily. 

"Why — why — let  me  see!"  May  recalled  the  conversation 
as  well  as  she  could;  recalled  it  with  unusual  accuracy,  indeed, 
for  in  her  flurry  she  could  not  clearly  decide  what  attitude 
Stephen  wanted  her  to  take. 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Stephen  slowly,  "no — this  doesn't 
surprise  me.  He  wanted  to  be  manager,  he  wanted  five  hun- 
dred a  month,  he  wanted  to  advertise  all  over  the  state,  and 
when  he  can't — he  threatens  to  drop  out!" 

"Well,  you — you  hope  he  does,  don't  you?"  May  asked 
uncertainly. 

"I  certainly  do  not!"  Stephen  said,  roundly. 

"Why,  but  Steve " 

"May,  you  have  not  been  following  the  developments  of  this 
thing  as  I  have,"  her  husband  said,  enlighteningly.  "When 
Rob  first  came  back  he  was  entirely  superfluous — yes.  But 
that  was  six  years  ago!  Now  Rossi  has  dropped  out,  Crane 
is  going  over  to  Finch  and  Houston,  and  the  idea  was  that  Bob 
was  to  take  up  that  stock  and  keep  it  in  the  family.  Fender- 
son  wants  it,  of  course,  and  if  what  Fanny  tells  you  is  true,  he 
may  get  it!  /  can't  afford  to  buy  it — your  father  can't!  Bob 
was  pretty  outspoken  in  the  last  directors'  meeting,  said  he 
was  practically  manager  and  wanted  to  be  recognized  as 
manager,  wanted  a  big  salary,  and  talked  rather  high-handedly 
then.     I  suppose  this  is  what  he  meant!" 

"But,  Stephen,  won't  it  mean  a  much  freer  hand  for  you  if 
both  Pa  and  Bob  get  out?"  the  wife  asked  anxiously. 

"It  will  and  it  won't.  There's  young  Fenderson,  you 
know." 

"Tom  Fenderson!     Why,  he's  a  boy!" 

"He's  an  awfully  smart  boy,  then.  Yes,  Fenderson  is  ex 
tremely  ambitious,  and  Yeasley,  and  of  course  old  Fenderson, 
are  right  behind  him!" 

"Old  Fenderson  used  to  wash  the  windows,  I  remember 
that!" 

"Well,  young  Fenderson  doesn't.  I  wish — I  wish  your 
sister  Fanny  would  talk  a  little  less!" 

May  was  frightened.  Her  heart  was  heavy  with  misgivings 
as  she  continued  her  preparations  for  bed.     It  was  a  satisfac 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    315 

tion  to  her  when  she  heard  Stephen's  even  heavy  breathing 
deepen  to  an  actual  snore. 

She  lay  awake  far  into  the  night,  thinking,  or  trying  to 
think.  It  was  all  very  puzzling:  May  wished  she  knew  more 
about  that  great  ocean  that  hemmed  in  her  little  island  of  life 
so  completely.  Business.  It  was  mysterious;  how  much  men 
knew  about  it,  and  how  curiously  it  worked! 

There  was  a  hot  bright  summer  moon  shining  down  upon 
the  country  town;  youth  and  laughter  were  abroad;  May 
heard  tinkling  banjo  strings,  voices.  The  bedroom  was  black 
and  close.  Great  summer  moths  batted  at  the  screened  win- 
dows, footsteps  chipped  up  and  down  the  wooden  sidewalk, 
under  the  big  trees.  Now  and  then  a  warm  puff  of  breeze 
brought  in  the  clean,  stiff  curtains,  and  they  streamed  lazily 
in  the  dark.  May  could  just  see  the  shimmering  mirror  of  the 
high  wardrobe,  the  white  glimmer  of  Stephen's  underwear  on 
la  chair.  She  thought  how  terrible  it  would  be  if  Pa  died 
suddenly,  and  Stephen  died  the  next  day.  Harry  would  be 
Bobo's  only  guardian,  with  Bob,  and  suppose  he  decided  to 
take  the  San  Rafael  house  right  over  May's  head,  and  her 
children's  heads!  What  could  they  do — nothing.  What  could 
they  do! 

If  only  one  of  the  girls  were  married — if  Vicky  had  tamed 
her  crude  Spanish  lover,  even.     But  too  late  to  think  of  that! 

"I  daresay  poor  Bertie  would  have  to  take  care  of  us  all," 
May  thought,  twisting  over  once  more  in  the  living  and  thrill- 
ing darkness.  "Heavens!  What  a  moon!  It  must  be  twelve 
o'clock!" 

"What — what!"  Stephen  half-mumbled,  half-shouted,  start- 
t  ing  up.  He  hated  to  be  waked  from  his  first  sleep;  May  lay 
;  motionless  and  tense  beside  him.     She  dared  not  turn  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  FEW  weeks  later  the  Brewer  family  enjoyed  a  brief 
return  of  social  favour  with  the  announcement  that 
the  wedding  of  young  Albert  Edward  Brewer  and 
Miss  Lola  Espinosa  was  to  be  an  event  of  the  early  fall.  Miss 
Espinosa  was  beautiful  and  an  heiress  and,  although  not  a  Cali- 
fornian,  had  many  friends  among  the  younger  set.  Mr. 
Brewer  was  a  son  of  the  well-known  San  Rafael  family;  his 
mother  had  been  the  popular  Miss  May  Crabtree  before  her 
marriage  a  few  years  ago.  Miss  Espinosa  was  at  present  visit- 
ing Miss  Ernestine  and  Miss  Louisianna  Brewer. 

There  were  a  great  many  callers  in  the  garden  in  the  after- 
noons, and  much  flattery  and  pleasure  for  Bertie  and  Lola,  and 
for  the  girls  in  a  lesser  degree.  May  did  indeed  bestow  a  dis- 
proportionate amount  of  the  family  treasures  upon  her  prospec- 
tive daughter-in-law,  and  engaged  a  good  Chinese  cook,  at 
thirty  dollars  a  month,  to  carry  them  over  the  wedding.  The 
old  friends  were  not  apt  to  admire  Bertie's  affected,  odd-man- 
nered little  sweetheart,  and  even  the  girls  found  it  hard  to  under- 
stand Lola  at  all  times.  Her  laughter  and  tears  were  altogether 
too  easily  aroused,  and  the  Brewers  witnessed  more  than  one 
quarrel  between  the  lovers  as  the  summer  wore  on. 

Bertie  was  unusually  quiet;  in  truth  he  was  a  little  bewildered. 
Mama  had  kept  at  him — and  kept  at  him — for  months,  to 
go  and  see  dear  little  Miss  Espinosa,  who  had  so  few  friends. 
Mama  had  manufactured  all  sorts  of  errands  to  take  him  to  the 
Tasheiras,  and  now  he  had  asked  Lola  to  marry  him,  and  they 
were  going  to  be  married;  he  supposed  it  would  be  all  right.  He 
could  not  fancy  himself  married  to  Lola;  his  eagerly  chattering, 
impassioned  little  wiL-to-be  seemed  curiously  remote  from  his 
own  inner  heart  and  soul.  There  had  been  that  Sunday  walk, 
and  lunch  with  her  aunts;  and  then  he  and  Lola  had  been  laugh- 
ing and  eating  chocolates  over  a  fire,  and  then  he  had  kissed  her, 

murmured  to  her 

316 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    317 

And  then  suddenly  they  had  been  rushing  into  the  Sefioritas 
sitting-room,  with  the  smelly  dogs  and  the  big  rocking-chairs, 
and  they  had  all  kissed  Bertie  and  Lola.     They  were  engaged! 

Everything  else  had  followed.  Lola  could  not  wait  to  tell  his 
sisters;  they  had  ridden  into  San  Rafael  that  very  afternoon 
and  had  supper  with  his  family.  Lola  had  laughed,  exulted, 
run  upstairs  to  talk  with  the  girls;  the  whole  house  had  rung 
with  the  excitement. 

Nobody  questioned  it,  nobody  was  surprised,  nobody  seemed 
in  the  least  in  doubt  what  to  do,  except  Bertie.  He  was  pro- 
foundly astonished  and  bewildered.  He  had  not  supposed  him- 
self proposing  to  Lola  that  afternoon — quite.  He  had  not  been 
quite  " jollying "  her,  either.  But  to  have  the  machinery  so 
rapidly  set  in  motion  gave  him  grave  disquiet. 

She  wanted  from  him  only  flattery  and  kisses;  she  strangled 
him  with  embraces.  Bertie  rather  avoided  being  alone  with  her; 
she  was  not  in  the  least  like  any  other  girl  he  had  ever  fancied, 
like  joyous,  healthy  little  Kitty,  for  instance,  who  had  so  many 
interests  in  life  besides  love-making.  Kitty  liked  walks,  and 
cooking,  and  even  books,  and  babies,  and  church  singing.  Lola 
liked  to  be  in  his  arms,  laughing  extravagantly,  kissing  him,  and 
teasing  him  to  praise  her. 

She  was  not  mercenary;  it  mattered  little  to  her  that  she 
had  a  splendid  allowance  from  her  uncle  now,  and  would  pre- 
sumably inherit  a  great  deal  of  money  when  Tio  Pio,  as  she 
called  him,  died.     It  delighted  her,  quite  frankly,  that  financial 
;  considerations   need   not   delay  their  marriage.     She  was  en- 
i  chanted  with  all  the  details,  congratulations  from  the  Brewers' 
I  friends,  presents,  newspaper  notices;  Lola  loved  her  role,  and 
I  extracted  every  particle  of  joy  from  it.     May  admired  her  trem- 
:  ulously:  dear  little  thing,  not  yet  twenty,  and  with   all  that 
!  money,   and  yet  such   a  merry,   captivating,  unspoiled   child! 
'  Nobody  discussed  the  engagement  with  Bertie:  it  simply  was; 
like  a  birth. 

This  was  a  trying  time  for  Bertie's  sisters.       They  were  all 

older  than  Lola,  none  had  either  so  brilliant  a  present  or  so 

j  interesting  a  future.    Lola  not  only  possessed  Bertie  body  and 

I  soul  and  was  proud  to  display  her  possession  of  him,  but  there 

I  were  other  young  men  hovering  about  the  little  heiress,  there 

were  presents,  there  were  long  talks  about  the  housekeeping  of 

the  young  Brewers,  there  was  Lola's  amazing  trousseau,  any 


3i8    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

one  item  of  which  would  have  quite  dizzied  the  Brewer  sisters. 
And  when  all  this  was  put  aside,  there  was  love,  to  confess,  to 
accept,  to  possess.  When  Lola  and  Bertie  wandered  away 
into  the  early  darkness  of  the  garden,  or  were  excused  to  go  off 
on  some  small  excursion  together,  as  became  betrothed  youth, 
Vicky  used  to  feel  that  life  was  too  bitter  to  be  borne.  She 
didn't  want  Lola's  lover,  she  didn't  want  any  girl's  lover — but 
was  there  none  of  the  sweetness  of  life  for  her? 

The  painful  question  of  the  ceremony  presently  arose.  Lola's 
aunts  wanted  a  church  wedding — this  was  impossible  in  Lola's 
church.  May  suggested  Mr.  Yelland  and  their  dear  little 
church,  but  this  was  forbidden  to  Lola,  too.  May  had  to  have 
this  explained  to  her  seventeen  times,  by  all  members  of  the 
family,  and  even  then  showed  an  inclination  to  repeat,  with 
a  playful  voice  but  in  unmistakable  annoyance: 

"  But  surely,  surely — even  if  they  object  to  my  poor  Bertie 
in  your  church,  dear,  we  have  only  the  warmest  welcome  for 
you  in  ours!  I  should  be  quite  vexed,  myself,  if  Mr.  Yelland 
dared  to  say  that  he  objected!  But  of  course  he  doesnt  object 
— he  and  Grace  and  Tina  and  I  should  be  only  too  happy  to  have 
the  prettiest  little  wedding  in  the  world " 

It  was  no  use;  it  must  be  a  house  wedding,  in  the  hideous  old 
Tasheira  ranch  house.  Lola  grew  quite  peppery  when  some- 
body rather  timidly  suggested  the  Brewer  home  instead.  It 
was  so  big,  and  the  sitting-room  and  library  could  be  thrown 
together,  and  the  little  reception-room  at  the  end  turned  into  a 
sort  of  little  altar 

No  use  again,  the  Tasheira  homestead  and  none  other  would 
do,  so  the  Brewers  must  plan,  as  best  they  might,  to  share  the 
first  family  wedding  with  the  old  Senoritas.  May  and  Esme 
assured  each  other  in  despair  that  everything  would  surely  go 
wrong.  The  oddly  assorted  servants  at  the  ranch  would  make 
an  utter  botch  of  what  should  rightfully  be  a  caterer's  business. 
Caterers  were  an  innovation  in  San  Francisco;  there  had  been 
for  some  years  a  general  idea  that  they  and  their  work  were 
connected  only  with  the  "French  weddings"  that  were  so  oddly 
celebrated  with  feasting,  dancing,  and  tremendous  family  gath- 
erings. But  now  the  really  prominent  people  were  beginning 
to  employ  them,  and  May  felt  that  her  only  son's  wedding  was 
a  brilliant  opportunity  to  show  how  correctly  the  Brewer 
family  managed  these  affairs. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    3i9 

She  could  not  resist  just  a  little  fling  at  her  daughters,  when 
the  windy  warm  August  afternoon  of  the  great  event  actually 
arrived.  Tina  and  Vicky  were  dutifully  crowding  their  mother 
into  her  new  gown,  carriages  waited  at  the  gate  for  the  allied 
families.  May  suffered  in  the  rather  stuffy  heat  of  the  day;  she 
felt  nothing  but  disgust  at  the  way  Miss  Curry  had  ruined  her 
striped  brown  silk;  and  she  experienced  all  a  mother's  emotions 
at  losing  her  only  son.  The  upper  sleeve  was  too  tight;  it  drew 
her  arms  and  her  breast  uncomfortably,  and  threatened  to  burst. 
She  would  not  have  an  easy  moment  in  it,  that  was  clear.  She 
thought  her  hair  looked  horrible,  too. 

"Well,  lawks,  what's  the  difference!"  she  said,  hardily,  watch- 
ing her  daughters  in  the  mirror  as  they  hooked  her,  "nobody's 
going  to  look  at  poor  old  me!" 

"Breathe  in,  Mama!"  Victoria  was  fully  dressed,  and 
looked  charming.  Her  big  hat  was  tipped  over  her  eyes,  her 
blue  dimity  dress,  its  ruffles  edged  with  narrow  blue  ribbon,  was 
most  becoming.  She  laid  new  white  gloves,  with  the  tissue- 
paper  floating  gently  from  them  to  the  littered  floor,  upon  her 
mother's  bed. 

"Goodness,  but  you're  all  fine!"  Lucy  said,  looking  well  her- 
self in  her  new,  water-stripe  black  silk.  It  was  then  May  had 
her  little  revenge  upon  her  daughters,  who  had  just  caught,  in 
the  hooks  of  her  lined,  high  silk  collar,  some  of  the  fine  hairs  at 
the  nape  of  her  hot,  uncomfortable  neck. 

"I'm  cross  at  these  girls  of  mine,  that  don't  give  us  a  chance 
to  show  what  a  pretty  wedding  we  could  have  here,  in  the  dear 
old  home!" 

Victoria,  and  Lou,  who  was  fitting  on  her  gloves  very  carefully 
as  she  sat  in  the  bay  window  couch,  exchanged  an  eloquent 
glance.     Tina  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"You'd  be  the  first  one  to  object,  Mama,  if  a  son-in-law  did 
come  along!" 

"I  don't  know,"  May  said,  archly,  "I  think  I'd  make  a  very 
nice  mama-in-law!" 

"You'd  better  ask  Alice  here  about  the  next  wedding,"  Lucy 
said.  All  eyes  turned  to  Alice,  who  sat  next  to  Lou  on  the  couch, 
with  Bobo,  very  clean  and  solemn,  in  her  lap. 

Alice  laughed  with  amused  scorn. 

"Hear  her!" 

"Doctor  Richards!"  Esme  said. 


320    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Doctor  Richards  has  got  one  wife,  if  you  count  that!" 

"I  know,5'  Vicky  exulted.     "Dr.  Babcock!" 

"Not  that  old  man!"  protested  May,  quickly  and  protec- 
tively, looking  from  one  face  to  another. 

"Forty-two,"  Lucy  stated  drily. 

"Heavens — with  that  beard!  And  hasn't  he  children  by 
his  first  wife?" 

"One  girl — almost  grown,"  supplied  Lucy. 

"Mama,"  Alice  smiled,  "don't  be  so  silly!" 

"I'm  not  saying  anything,"  Lucy  said  innocently. 

"No,  but  Alice,  do  you  like  him — but  Alice,  does  he  like  you  ?" 
Vicky  said,  in  excitement  and  interest.  "What  is  he — a  regular 
doctor?" 

"Fine  practice,"  Lucy  said. 

"But,  Alice— ah,  tell  us!" 

"I'll  tell  you  nothing!"  Alice  said,  laughing  and  flushed. 
"It's  all  nonsense!  I  like  him,  and  so  do  Mama  and  Papa,  but 
that's  all!  I'll  tell  you  when  there's  anything  to  tell,  fast 
enough!" 

Stephen  put  his  head  in  the  door. 

"Pretty  nearly  ready,  Mama?" 

"Just  about,  but  I  could  cry,"  May  answered,  heated  and 
cross,  "when  I  think  of  the  way  she's  botched  this  dress!" 

"Looks  kinder  tight,"  Stephen  commented,  sitting  beside  his 
youngest  daughter  and  putting  his  arm  about  her. 

"Oh,  tight!  I'll  never,  never  give  her  one  single  day's  sewing 
again — a  dollar  a  day  for  this!"  May  sputtered,  revolving  be- 
fore the  mirror  and  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

"Vicky,  you're  a  picture!"  said  her  father  admiringly. 

"Maxine  Elliott!"  Victoria  said,  making  a  deep  bow. 

"How  do  you  suppose  she  parts  her  hair,  Vick?"  Alice  mur- 
mured, among  the  girls. 

"I  don't  know!  Lou  and  I  were  trying  it,  just  for  ducks " 

"Listen,"  Tina  contributed,  in  a  cautious  undertone,  "last 
night  Vick  and  I  were  drying  our  hair — did  you  tell  her,  Vick? — 
and  back  here,  imagine,  where  the  Torreys  live,  all  of  a  sudden 
we  heard " 

Their  voices  fell;  they  had  all  gathered  in  the  bay-window 
and  now  and  then  they  glanced  toward  the  big  shabby  room  and 
its  other  occupants,  anxious  not  to  be  overheard. 

"Oh,   that's   nothing — eight   hours!"   said   Alice.     She  told 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  321 

them  a  story  that  made  Victoria  shut  her  eyes  and  draw  a  quick 
breath. 

"She  was  asleep  this  morning,  when  we  went  over  to  ask," 
Tina  said,  "  but  her  mother  showed  us  the  baby.  Alice,  wouldn't 
you  die  of  fright  if  you  knew  you  were  going  to ?" 

"You  know  Grace  was  so  dear  about  that — about  telling 
Vernon,  I  mean,"  Tina  said.     "She  got  one  pink  rosebud " 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't.     That's  why  I  will  never  marry!" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  it!"  But  Victoria  said  it  to  herself;  for  Bertie 
had  come  in,  brave  in  his  first  frock  coat,  and  his  mother  had 
raised  her  arms,  tight  in  their  brown  silk  sleeves,  to  put  them 
about  his  neck  and  laugh  and  cry  a  little  as  she  kissed  him, 
and  then  all  his  sisters  had  to  kiss  him,  and  he  kissed  pretty 
demure-browed  Alice,  too,  and  after  that  there  were  no  more 
delays.  In  a  great  deal  of  confusion,  the  rustle  of  new  skirts, 
and  uncertain  laughter,  they  all  fluttered  downstairs.  Aunt 
Fanny  and  young  George  were  there;  George  was  a  big,  inno- 
cent-eyed eighteen-year-old  now,  awed  in  the  capable  hands  of 
his  cousin  Lou,  who  quite  definitely  annexed  him.  Also  waiting 
was  Bertie's  best  man,  Neil  Powers,  who  drove  Victoria  to  the 
Tasheiras'  in  his  own  smart  phaeton  and  told  her  on  the  way  of 
his  passionate  devotion  to  Kitty  and  his  hope  that  Kitty  was 
softening  toward  him.  Victoria,  bumping  along  happily  beside 
another  girl's  admirer,  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  have 
an  admirer  of  her  own. 

The  Tasheira  house  looked  grimmer  and  shabbier  than  ever, 
in  the  autumn  untidiness  and  dryness  of  grass  and  garden.  A 
glare  of  merciless  sunlight  was  striking  across  the  world,  and 
the  wind  whined  and  rattled  in  the  phaeton's  furled  hood. 
Other  phaetons,  carriages,  and  surreys  were  gathering  on  the 
neglected  and  winding  road,  which  took  its  own  sagging  course 
between  the  lipping  waters  of  the  bay,  edged  deep  in  bowing 
green  tules  and  the  yellow-brown  rise  of  the  fields. 
.  Back  of  the  distempered  white  house,  which  stood  bold  and 
stark  in  the  harsh  light,  were  farm  fences  that  divided  the 
parched  garden  from  the  old  casa,  and  from  the  barns,  corrals, 
and  cow  yard.  Here  there  were  assembled  to-day  perhaps  a 
score  of  Mexican,  Spanish,  and  Indian  men,  women,  and  children, 
laughing  and  nudging  each  other  as  they  watched  the  scene. 

The  arrivals  climbed  out  of  their  conveyances,  shook  them- 
selves, eyed  each  other  solemnly,  and  mounted  the  flight  of 


322    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

peeled  wooden  steps  to  the  hall  door.  Almost  all  the  different 
groups  were  strange  to  all  the  others,  but  there  was  a  general 
inclination  to  bow  distantly  and  solemnly  as  their  eyes  met. 
Preceding  them,  Victoria  saw  rustling  skirts,  flowered  hats,  now 
and  then  a  stiff  frock-coat  and  silk  hat  mingling  with  the  usual 
male  attire  of  sack  suit  and  derby.  Esme  and  her  mother 
whispered ;  they  knew  scarcely  any  one,  they  said.  Fanny  eyed 
the  arrivals  with  distended  nostril  and  scornful  eye.  Lou  gig- 
gled with  the  enslaved  Georgie. 

"I  suppose  we  go  in  here — I  suppose  we  go  in  here "  the 

women  murmured  uncertainly,  as  they  crossed  the  sill.  The 
wide  hall  was  bare  and  smelled  of  plaster;  outside  the  wind 
rattled  shutters  and  doors  briskly.  In  the  direction  of  the  din- 
ing room  there  was  the  sound  of  voices. 

"I  think  you  go  upstairs,"  said  a  descending  guest,  bravely 
but  shyly.  Her  courtesy  was  acknowledged  only  by  an  em- 
barrassed half-smile  and  averted  eyes  by  the  arriving  women. 
But  they  all  filed  upstairs,  May's  breath  coming  a  little  hard  as 
she  mounted. 

"They  ought  to  have  a  maid  there  to  direct  people,"  Vicky 
murmured  in  her  ear. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  said  Bertie's  mother  in  despair.  "Where 
did  Bertie  go?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Off  with  Papa  and  Neil,  I  think." 

"Poor  boy! — Vick,"  her  mother  breathed,  "let  Mama  sug- 
gest that  perhaps  it  would  be  a  little  nicer  not  to  call  him  Neil 
until  you  know  him  just  a  little  better !" 

They  moved  into  a  large,  bare,  upstairs  bedroom,  principally 
furnished  with  an  enormous  bed  draped  with  lace  and  pink  rib- 
bons, and  a  big  coloured  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  standing 
upon  the  globe,  with  a  snake  wriggling  from  under  Her  foot. 
This  room  was  full  of  solemnly  circulating  and  vaguely  murmur- 
ing women;  those  who  were  alone  trying  to  look  at  ease,  those 
who  were  with  companions  finding  a  great  many  unimportant 
things  to  talk  about,  under  breath. 

"Yes,  we'll  just  lay  these  here,  and  then  we  can  find  them 
again — no,  dear,  your  hair  is  very  nice — I  think  I  would  wear 
my  hat,  Lou — I  don't  know —  suppose  now  we  go  down  again — 
I  don't  know — "  murmured  the  Brewer  party,  circulating  and 
uneasy  with  the  rest.  Irresolutely,  exchanging  questioning 
glances,  they  went  out  into  the  hall  again,  and  descended  to  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    323 

lower  hall,  and  were  carried  on  the  current  to  the  rear  room  from 
whence  they  had  heard  voices. 

Here  were  hostesses  and  guidance  to  spare;  they  were  warmly 
welcomed  into  sudden  dimness.  It  was  dear  Albert's  family! 
there  were  kisses,  received  awkwardly  enough  by  May  from  the 
laced  and  dressed  and  excited  great-aunts  of  the  bride.  The 
Brewers  were  piloted  through  a  confusion  of  aligned  chairs, 
partly  filled  with  twisting  and  staring  and  unfamiliar  persons. 
They  must  come  to  the  very  front — here — and  here  was  another 
chair — there  were  plenty  of  chairs — here  and  here 

A  low  undercurrent  of  chatter  and  subdued  laughter  sur- 
rounded them.  It  was  a  full  minute  before  Victoria  could  throw 
off  an  overwhelming  embarrassment  and  look  furtively  about 
her.  She  knew  that  they  were  temporarily  the  chief  object  of 
interest,  in  the  long,  darkened  double  parlours,  whose  shutters 
were  split  with  shafts  of  sword-like  light,  in  the  mote-filled  gloom, 
and  she  felt  a  spasmodic  anger  at  Aunt  Fanny,  who  audibly 
tittered:  "Here  are  all  of  us  old  maids!" 

"That's  Victoria — isn't  she  handsome?"  she  heard  somebody 
whisper,  and  she  felt  her  heart  jump  with  pleasure  and  thrill. 
A  cracked  clock  somewhere  struck  five — they  had  nearly  been 
late  for  Bertie's  wedding. 

Under  all  her  impressions,  under  Esme's  and  Tina's  and 
Lou's,  was  of  course  a  profound  and  sickening  jealousy  of  Bertie 
and  Lola,  of  the  mysterious  ease  with  which  everything  de- 
sirable in  life  had  come  to  them  both.  But  Vicky's  unconquer- 
able optimism  presently  pushed  this  somewhat  into  the  back- 
ground. This  was  exciting  and  thrilling,  anyway,  and  even 
when  it  was  over  she  would  still  have  the  new  gown  and  hat 
and  she  could  still  look  forward  to  driving  home  with  Mr. 
Powers. 

Their  seats  were  set  at  an  angle  to  the  long  stretch  of  the  room, 
and  so  they  could  see  the  crowd  comfortably.  Presently  May 
could  see  her  boy,  waiting  with  Neil  in  the  back  hall,  glancing 
grinningly  out  now  and  then  to  eye  the  room. 

"Sweetest  fellow  in  the  world!"  she  said,  trembling  into  tears 
and  raising  a  folded  handkerchief  to  bitterly  shaking  lips. 

"  Well,  he  isn't  dead!"  Fanny  said,  with  her  bright  laugh. 

"  If  they  delay  long  enough,  Harry  may  get  here,"  Lucy 
whispered.  "Only  I'm  afraid  he'll  never  have  the  courage  to 
come  in!" 


324    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Why  do  they  darken  it?"  Georgie  asked,  leaning  over 
various  laps. 

"Sh — sh !"  May  whispered,  "I  suppose  it's   a   Spanish 

idea!" 

The  old  priest  was  led  in  by  Miss  Refugio;  he  had  been  driving 
and  was  blown  and  rosy;  he  looked  interestedly  and  amiably 
about  in  the  gloom,  panted,  wiped  his  forehead,  and  fell  into  an 
audible  and  deep-chested  conversation  in  Spanish  with  his 
hostess. 

"Hello,  Vicky!"  somebody  whispered  behind  her.  She 
whirled  about  to  hang  on  the  back  of  her  chair.  Her  whole 
face  brightened,  and  her  heart  gave  a  great  spring  of  joy.  Davy 
Dudley! 

They  whispered  busily.  Hadn't  he  planned  to  spend  this 
midsummer  working  in  Berlin?  Well,  he  had  been  so  tired,  and 
he  had  had  no  conditions  upon  his  fall  work  in  the  very  largest 
and  most  important  hospital  of  them  all.  So  when  he  had  met 
a  Los  Angeles  man,  old  Tom  Doran,  who  had  had  a  leg  ampu- 
tated and  couldn't  come  home  alone,  Davy  had  been  glad  to  act 
as  escort,  just  for  the  round  trip.  He  had  arrived  only  yesterday 
and  was  going  to  Napa  on  the  boat  to-night.  He  had  met 
Bertie  last  night  at  the  ferry,  and  Bertie  had  asked  him  to  the 
wedding. 

He  looked  shabby,  lean,  older.  And  when  he  asked  him  how 
things  were  with  his  family,  he  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 
Could  he  get  away  to  Germany  again?  the  girl  asked.  His  face 
grew  grim,  weary.     He  nodded  his  head  with  bitter  distaste. 

"Next  June  I'll  come  home  to  stay  and  make  it  up  to  them," 
he  said,  sternly. 

"Sh — sh!"  May  said,  agitatedly.  The  wheezing  strains 
of  a  little  melodeon  were  threading  the  close  air  and  silencing 
the  murmuring  and  low  laughter.  Everyone  waited  expectantly 
for  a  few  moments,  then  conversation  gradually  grew  again, 
and  after  a  while  the  melodeon  stopped.  Victoria  did  not  hear 
the  clock  now,  she  was  whispering  with  Davy.  It  struck  the 
half-hour. 

Bertie  wondered  a  little,  with  the  others.  What  was  delaying 
Lola  ?  He  tried  not  to  think  of  Mina  and  that  wretched  hour 
at  Mina's  house  on  Thursday.  But  the  thought  of  her  would 
come. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    325 

She  had  been  in  bed,  a  not-too-clean  bed,  and  she  had  said  she 
was  sick,  and  looked  sick.  Her  sister,  a  young  wife  enormous 
with  child,  had  given  him  a  dark  and  suspicious  glance  as  she 
showed  him  in.  He  had  sat  awkwardly  beside  Mina,  not  know- 
ing what  to  say  or  do. 

She  had  held  his  hand,  and  patted  it,  and  gulped — so  small  a 
woman,  so  deeply  hurt.  She  had  said,  smiling  almost  with 
the  effect  of  strangulation,  that  she  hadn't  meant  him  to 
come  so  soon,  she  had  just  written  because  she  wanted  to 
hear  all  about  it — she  was  so — a  rising  tide  of  tears  and  sobs 
almost  engulfed  her  at  this  point,  but  she  had  fought  on  bravely — 
she  was  so  interested.  If  she  had  thought  he  was  coming  at 
once,  she  would  have  been  up,  and  have  tried  to  look  pretty 
for  him 

The  memory  of  her  smile  made  him  wince,  here  in  the 
Tasheira  home,  waiting  for  little  confident,  saucy  Lola. 

"I  blame  myself,  Bertie,"  Mina  had  said,  quickly,  and  with 
control,  "I  did  what  I  knew  was  wrong,  and  I  guess  I've  got  my- 
self to  blame!  But" —  the  shaking  lips  again,  the  eyes  trying 
to  smile  over  a  sudden  sob  that  widened  her  nostrils  and  made 
her  mouth  pitiful — "but  I  love  you  so!"  Mina  had  faltered,»break- 
ing  down,  "you  and  me  were  so  happy — 'member  that  time  we 
climbed  up  on  the  fence  to  get  away  from  the  dog,  and  that 
Sunday  night  we  watched  the  stars " 

"I  know!"  Bertie  had  said,  quickly  and  thickly. 

"Bertie "  she  had  said,  beginning  to  cry  quite  openly. 

And  she  had  flung  herself  back  on  her  pillow,  and  put  one  lean 
arm  up  against  her  face. 

He  had  sat  on,  more  wretched  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life.  He  had  held  her  free  hand,  there  in  her  sordid  little  bed- 
room, knowing  that  every  fibre  of  her  hurt  body  and  scarred 
soul  was  hungry  to  have  him  slide  to  his  knees,  gather  the  limp 
little  cheap  nightgown  and  the  convulsed  face  against  his  heart 
and  kiss  the  wet  and  swollen  and  shaking  mouth. 

Gulping,  sniffling  wetly,  swallowing,  she  had  suddenly  sat 
up,  raised  her  disordered  hair  in  business-like  hands,  dashed  the 
tears  from  her  eyes.  He  was  going  to  be  married  Monday;  she 
wanted  to  hear  all  about  it. 

But  five  minutes  later  the  break-down  had  recurred,  she 
had  fallen  back  against  the  pillow  again,  her  poor  little  colourless 
homely  face  once  again  wrinkled  and  distorted  with  weeping. 


326    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Where  was  the  bride?  What  was  the  delay?  At  six  o'clock 
there  was  general  uneasiness  and  suspicion  among  the  guests. 
But  the  Senoritas  were  smiling  and  calm;  time  figured  little  in 
their  plans.  Lou,  a  bridesmaid,  was  the  only  Brewer  who  had 
been  invited  upstairs  to  share  the  dressing,  for  Lola's  room  was 
packed  with  servants,  obscure  relatives  from  San  Jose  and  San 
Francisco,  and  from  Petaluma  ranches,  and  school-friends  from 
the  convent. 

At  six  o'clock  these  came  down,  and  the  melodeon  began 
again,  and  exactly  one  hour  and  twenty  minutes  after  the  an- 
nounced hour,  there  was  the  sound  of  laughter,  tears,  voices  in 
the  hall,  the  Senoritas  and  a  few  close  relatives  came  leisurely 
in,  Bertie  and  Neil  walked  somewhat  uncertainly  from  their 
retreat,  and  stood  embarrassedly  buttoning  and  unbuttoning 
their  white  gloves.  Bertie's  ascot  tie  was  crooked,  the  orange 
blossom  in  his  buttonhole  hung  by  a  thread,  he  looked  uncom- 
fortable in  the  frock  coat,  and  his  gloves  and  Neil's  looked  large 
and  stuffed  with  their  fingers.  The  old  priest  rose,  turning  the 
pages  of  a  limp  little  prayerbook  and  eyeing  the  gathering 
benevolently  over  his  enormous  spectacles. 

The  room  was  very  hot;  the  wind  was  still  audible  outside. 
Suddenly  a  woman's  trembling  soprano  clove  the  silence;  she 
quavered  nervously  through  "O  Promise  Me,"  the  organ  wan- 
dering at  will  and  resting  contentedly  upon  utter  discord  at  the 
close  of  every  phrase.  It  seemed  to  the  Brewers,  in  their 
agonized  consciousness  of  the  few  old  family  friends  present  who 
were  unquestionably  "in  society,"  that  the  song  lasted  an  hour. 

Silence. 

"Do  we  applaud?"  Davy  whispered  to  Victoria.  Vicky 
emitted  an  unexpected  and  audible  chuckle,  which  terrified  her 
so  that  she  looked  down  at  the  shabby  Moquette  carpet  in  dumb 
confusion  for  at  least  a  full  minute. 

Tina  told  her  afterward  that  at  this  moment  a  maid  with  a 
large  tray  of  food  had  entered  confidently  from  the  rear  of  the 
house,  under  the  impression  that  the  ceremony  was  over,  and 
the  feast  about  to  begin.     She  had  been  hustled  out  of  sight. 

Everyone  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  absurdity  of  Bertie 
Brewer's  wedding  by  this  time,  except  his  immediate  relatives 
and  himself.  He  and  Neil  looked  doubtfully  at  the  doorway 
from  whose  retreat  they  had  prematurely  issued,  but  decided 
to  stand  their  ground. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    327 

The  wedding  march!  Everybody  rose.  Nothing  further 
happened  except  that  a  lean,  brown,  oily-faced  old  servant  came 
in  to  whisper  to  Miss  Lupita,  who  comfortably  went  out,  taking 
with  her  the  alert  and  willing,  if  surprised,  Stephen. 

Slowly,  to  the  organ's  vague  meandering  discords,  and  the 
turning  of  every  crisp  silk  in  the  room,  Stephen  came  solemnly 
and  pleasantly  forward,  five  minutes  later,  with  a  little  dangling, 
lace-smothered  burden  upon  his  arm.  Something  had  hap- 
pened to  delay  Lola's  old  lawyer,  who  was  to  have  performed  this 
fatherly  office,  and  Bertie's  kind  and  willing  father  had  been 
asked  to  take  his  place. 

Lola's  head  hung,  her  little  white-gloved  hand  looked  very 
tiny  upon  his  arm;  and  when  her  face  finally  could  be  seen, 
it  was  colourless,  terrified,  and  staring  blankly.  May  said  later 
that  even  then,  from  that  very  moment,  dear  Bertie  looked  so 
big  and  tender  and  protecting,  just  as  if  wonderful  new  qualities 
had  developed  in  him  with  this  new  great  love  and  devotion. 

"Just  as  sweet  and  pure  as  two  children!"  May  said  to 
Fanny,  and  Fanny,  half  angry  at  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  nodded 
and  tossed  her  head. 

Immediately  after  the  last  word,  Bertie  turned  to  stoop  and 
kiss  his  bride,  the  priest  shook  their  hands,  they  became  the 
centre  of  a  whirlpool  of  kisses  and  congratulations.  May,  tak- 
ing her  boy  to  her  bosom,  looked  as  if  she  would  burst  with 
emotion,  tight  gown,  and  heat.  The  girls  laughed  through  tears, 
as  he  gave  them  each  a  great  embrace. 

"Whew — that's  over!"  he  said,  and  everyone  laughed  and 
quoted  this  spontaneous  remark. 

Lola  was  bright,  voluble,  laughing.  She  had  gathered  her 
satin  train  over  her  arm,  and  when  her  delicate  veil  caught  upon 
a  brooch  or  hat-brim  she  freed  it  with  a  happy  toss  of  her  elab- 
orately curled  little  head. 

"Don't  you  be  so  familiar,  Mr.  Albert  Crabtree!"  she  said 
gaily,  when  Bertie  straightened  a  twisted  orange  blossom  in 
her  wreath  upon  its  wire,  and  that  was  quoted  with  laughter, 
too. 

The  tremendous  meal  that  presently  was  served  with  much 
running  to  and  fro,  more  than  atoned  in  quantity  for  any  ir- 
regularity in  serving  or  choice  of  viands.  The  linen  and  the 
old  silver  were  magnificent,  the  plates  variegated.     There  were 


328    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

platters  and  platters  of  meats,  hot  and  cold,  and  the-conventional 
ice-cream,  and  great  plates  of  cut  layer-cakes,  and  there  were 
also  two  great  chased  silver  bowls — originally  parts  of  a  wash- 
stand  set — filled  with  an  ice-cold,  rich,  delicious  cream  punch, 
at  which  everyone  smiled  at  first,  but  which  everyone  eventually 
respected.  There  were  all  sorts  of  wines,  angelica  and 
cognac,  amazingly  mellow  red  wine,  and  unlimited  supplies 
of  champagne,  and  with  these  the  Seiioritas  kept  pressing 
rich  little  cakes  upon  everyone,  and  grapes  and  great  mellow 
peaches,  yellow  plums,  and  Mexican  candies  of  honey  and 
cactus  gum. 

Lola  had  time  to  grow  pale  with  weariness  again,  Bertie  looked 
flushed  and  tousled,  everybody  was  hoarse  with  too  much  talk, 
too  much  laughing,  too  much  eating  and  drinking.  At  about 
eight  o'clock  the  bride  and  groom  made  a  rush  for  the  front  door. 
By  this  time  almost  all  the  American  guests  had  gone.  But  the 
others  were  evidently  settling  down  for  a  night  of  revel. 

"Bertie,"  said  a  shadow,  coming  up  to  take  his  hand,  on  the 
dark  porch.     Bertie  started,  but  it  was  only  Uncle  Harry. 

"Bertie,  my  boy,"  he  said  earnestly,  "you  must  let  me  wish 
you  joy.     You  have  a — a  mighty  sweet  wife!" 

"Uncle  Harry,  I  didn't  know  you  were  here!"  Bertie,  in  his 
relief,  had  a  moment  of  pity  for  Harry,  so  shabby  and  quiet  and 
timid  in  the  dark. 

"It's  my  Uncle  Harry,"  he  said  to  Lola,  who  was  peering 
down  toward  the  expected  carriage  on  the  drive. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is  Saint  Joseph!"  Lola  said,  pettish  and 
laughing. 

"She — she — yes,  she  wants  to  get  away!"  Harry  said  hur- 
riedly. "Of  course — I  understand — God  bless  you,  Bertie! 
I  was  too  late  to  see  you  married,  my  boy,  but  you  understand. 
Trouble  at  the  office — Good-bye!" 

The  crowd  closed  about  them;  they  ran  through  showers  of 
rice  and  tiny  candies,  carriage  lamps  flashed,  spokes  caught  like 
fingers  at  the  light,  and  they  were  gone.  May  sniffed;  Stephen's 
arm  was  prompt  and  lover-like  about  her.  Victoria,  murmuring 
with  Davy,  was  in  seventh  heaven,  in  the  confused  shadows  of 
the'  big,  half-emptying  rooms,  where  nobody  knew  or  cared 
what  a  pretty  girl  and  an  admiring  man  talked  about,  laughed 
about,  murmured  about.  Lucy  gathered  her  family  with  brisk 
complacency. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    329 

"Georgie,  say  good-night  to  your  cousin  Lou — maybe  she'll 
let  you  kiss  her.  Bobo,  love,  keep  my  hand.  Harry.  Oh,  Bob, 
see  if  that  same  man  is  waiting  that  drove  us  out!" 

"How  did  you  get  here,  Lucy?"  Stephen  asked,  somewhat 
taken  with  her  new  silk  and  jet  earrings. 

"Drove  from  Saucelito,  Steve.  It  was  the  easiest  way.  My 
dear,"  said  Lucy,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  and  in 
a  laughing,  confidential  undertone,  "I  am  reaching — the  age 
— when  I  can  not  drink  champagne!" 

Stephen,  also  warmed  with  good  wine,  was  captivated. 

"Sweet  wedding,  Lucy?"  he  said  with  a  little  emotion,  kissing 
her. 

"Lovely!"  she  said,  pleased  and  flattered. 

"This — this  rig  must  be  charged  to  me,  Harry!"  Stephen 
said  seriously,  to  his  brother. 

"Nonsense!"  Bob  said.  Harry  was  so  touched  and  so  thrilled 
by  the  occasion,  his  wife's  beauty,  Alice's  wedding  gown,  the 
stinging  and  bubbling  contents  of  the  glass  that  one  of  the  Seiiori- 
tas  had  pressed  into  his  hand,  that  he  was  wandering  about  al- 
most aimlessly,  ready  to  smile  at  any  one  and  do  anything.  He 
had  his  beloved  youngest  daughter  in  the  curve  of  his  arm,  all 
the  long  drive  home  down  to  Saucelito:  Bob  and  Lucy  had  the 
centre  seat.  The  double  surrey  rocked  and  rattled  along  in  the 
warm  night;  the  wind  had  died,  lights  in  the  bay  were  placidly 
doubled  in  the  water.  A  pungent  smell  of  dust  and  dew  and 
tarweed,  mingled  with  the  strong  odour  of  sweat-soaked  harness 
and  the  sharp  sulphurous  breath  of  the  marsh,  smote  his  senses 
familiarly. 

"They'll  have  about  five  hundred  a  month  between  them!" 
Lucy  estimated.     "Lucky  Bertie!" 

"They're  welcome!"  Alice  whispered,  in  her  father's  ear,  and 
they  both  laughed  guiltily,  like  conspirators. 

The  boat  trip  was  a  glaring  agony  of  heat  and  light.  Lucy 
would  not  let  her  husband  sit  outside,  because  of  his  cough. 
They  were  all  stiff  and  weary  when  they  stumbled  into  the  warm 
close  hall  of  the  Larkin  Street  cottage. 

A  card  lay  on  the  carpet;  Alice  twisted  it  in  her  fingers:  Dr. 
Frank  L.  Babcock. 

"Well,  too  bad  to  miss  him!"  Lucy  said,  anxiously  bright. 
Alice  said  nothing;  she  kissed  her  father  and  went  slowly  into  her 
xoom.     Her  mother  followed  her.     "Think  of  his  coming  all  the 


33o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

way  from  the  Mission  to  see  a  certain  young  lady!"  Lucy  teased 
her  smilingly. 

"I  wish  he  would  stay  in  the  Mission!"  Alice  said,  busily 
hanging  up  hat  and  wraps. 

"No,  dear,  don't  say  that,  if  the  man  is  honestly  in  love  with 
you.     What  have  you  against  him?" 

"I've  nothing  against  him,  Mama!"  the  girl  answered  im- 
patiently.    "  But — well,  I  suppose  the  truth  is,  I  don't  love  him." 

Lucy  was  rolling  a  lace  scarf  thoughtfully,  sitting  in  a  low 
chair. 

"I  don't  think  most  girls  know  what  love  is,  until  after  they 
are  married,"  she  said  slowly. 

"But,  Mama,  then  suppose  they  find  it  isn't  love?" 

"Ah,  well — if  the  man  is  a  fine  man,  and  honest  and  true 
and  intelligent,  they  don't,"  Lucy  assured  her. 

Alice  was  silent,  musing.  She  was  twenty-two  now,  and  she 
had  her  profession.  But  it  was  natural  that  the  attentions  of 
this  man,  twenty  years  her  senior,  this  man  of  position,  of  some 
means  and  of  so  decided  a  character,  should  impress  her. 

"There's  nothing  I  don't  like  about  him,"  she  admitted,  after 
a  pause.  Alice  had  always  been  manageable,  dutiful,  inclined 
to  take  life  and  herself  with  conscientious  earnestness.  Her 
mother  looked  at  her  hopefully.  "Would  you  really  like  me  to 
get  married,  Mama?"  she  asked,  smiling  uncomfortably. 

"Why,  if  it  was  for  your  happiness,  dear!"  Lucy  answered, 
cautiously.  "There  isn't  much  else  in  life  for  a  woman.  Papa 
has  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  him  to 
have  you  settled  in  life.  And  Dr.  Babcock  is  such  a  splendid 
fellow!  You  don't  want  to  be  an  old  maid,  like  poor  Aunt 
May's  girls!" 

Alice  was  not  imaginative;  but  the  vague  little  dream  of  years 
seemed  to  be  dissolving  quite  visibly  before  her  eyes,  as  her 
mother  spoke.  She  had  never  analyzed  the  dream;  there  was 
about  it  the  fragrance  of  the  forbidden  country,  of  roses,  laugh- 
ter, a  face  close  to  her  own,  a  joy  that  was  half  fear  and  a  prayer 
for  freedom  lost  in  the  exquisite  sweetness  of  surrender. 

"Many  and  many  a  girl  has  coquetted  and  trifled  until  it  was 
too  late!"  Lucy  said  mildly.     "Look  at  poor  Aunt  Fanny!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Alice  answered  quickly.  Horrible  never  to 
know  life  at  all — to  be  superfluous  among  the  busy  and  beloved 
women  of  the  world!     And  Mama  said — everyone  said — that 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    331 

real  love  came  after,  not  before  marriage.  "I'll — I'll  pray 
about  it,  Mama!"  she  said  seriously.  Lucy  laughed  and  kissed 
her  fondly,  for  good-night. 

Meanwhile  the  Brewers  had  reached  home,  and  with  tearing 
and  exhausted  yawns,  were  standing  stupidly  about  the  upper 
hall,  leaning  against  each  other  and  the  walls,  wearily  discussing 
the  wedding.  When  Tina  described  the  maid,  bursting  into  the 
room  prematurely,  with  a  tray,  Vicky  and  Fanny  laughed  un- 
til they  were  almost  crying;  Esme  had  left  the  group  and  gone 
to  bed,  but  at  the  sound  of  their  shrieks  she  called  them  into 
her  room,  and  then  they  sat  upon  the  bed  and  went  on  talking 
for  another  hour. 

The  Senoritas  had  been  perfectly  awful  of  course — and  that 
delay,  what  on  earth  had  the  Bakers  and  de  Pinnas  and  the 
Murchisons  thought  of  that !  But  never  mind,  everything  went 
off  pretty  well,  considering.  Hadn't  Lola  been  pretty — no,  not 
pretty,  but  sweet.  No,  not  sweet  exactly,  either,  but  anyway, 
it  was  awfully  nice  of  them  to  ask  Papa  to  take  her  in.  And 
hadn't  Bertie  looked  darling!  Dear  old  Bertie,  think  of  him 
with  a  wife  and  a  separate  home  of  his  own!  Lucky  girl  that 
Lola  was,  to  get  a  boy  like  Bertie,  instead  of  some  fortune  hun- 
ter. Hadn't  Esme  looked  sweet — and  Lou  never  had  looked 
prettier.  Tina  had  looked  lovely.  And  Aunt  Fanny,  always 
have  a  bonnet  that  shape,  the  most  becoming  thing  you  ever  had 
in  your  life ! 

Esme  and  Tina  had  always  shared  a  room,  Vicky  doubling  up 
with  Lou — an  arrangement  that  for  obscure  reasons  was  pleas- 
ing to  all  the  sisters.  Esme  and  Tina  liked  to  feel  that  they 
could  not  share  things  comfortably  with  the  other  girls,  and. 
Lou  and  Vicky  murmured  their  satisfaction  over  their  indepen- 
dence whenever  they  really  cleaned  the  room,  moving  the 
bureau  and  the  bed. 

Now  Vicky,  who  had  been  removing  the  smaller  articles  of 
dress  for  some  time,  and  held  them — satin  stock,  silver-clasped 
satin  belt,  silver-tipped  side-combs,  silver  chain  bracelet — in 
her  hand,  dragged  her  yawning  sister  off  to  bed.  But  not  be- 
fore her  dancing  pulses  and  singing  heart  had  received  fresh  fuel 
from  almost  every  member  of  the  circle. 

Vicky  and  Davy  Dudley,  eh?  Well,  how  about  a  poor 
country  doctor  for  a  son-in-law,  Mama?     Did  you  see  them? 


332    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Did  you  notice  that  little  affair?  Well,  wasn't  Vicky  the  slyest 
thing  you  ever  saw  ! 

"D'you  really  like  Davy  Dudley,  Vick?"  Lou  murmured,  on 
a  sort  of  yawning  moan,  as  she  fell  into  bed. 

"No,"  Victoria  answered  softly,  with  something  of  the  day's 
glory  lingering  in  her  eyes.     "No.     But  I  love  him!" 

And  when  Lou  was  sound  asleep  she  slipped  out  of  bed,  and 
knelt  down  at  the  window,  studying  the  familiar  garden  and 
the  Torreys'  neat  little  roof,  and  the  willows  and  eucalyptus  and 
locusts,  and  the  lofty  old  stable  with  the  wooden  horse's  head 
looking  down,  chipped  and  battered,  from  a  chipped  and  bat- 
tered wooden  horse-shoe  over  the  door.  And  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  really  prayed. 

"Oh,  God,  there  must  be  something  that  gives  you  things, 
when  they're  not  wrong — and  you  want  them  so! — and  you 
— and  you  mean  to  be  good.  Please — please  make  it  right  with 
Davy  and  me — I  love  him  so!" 

She  knelt  for  a  long  time,  sometimes  praying,  sometimes 
studying  the  garden  with  dreamy  eyes,  sometimes  hugging  her 
bare  arms,  and  yawning,  and  resting  her  dark  head  against  the 
window  casing.  When  she  crawled  in  finally  beside  Lou,  it  was 
with  the  happiest  and  quietest  heart  that  she  had  ever  known. 


LCHAPTER  XX 

BERTIE'S  marriage  now  became  a  quiet  fact  in  a  world  of 
accepted  facts.  Discerning  eyes  would  have  seen,  almost 
as  soon  as  they  returned  from  their  ten  days'  honey- 
moon, that  there  was  at  present  no  tie  between  the  young  hus- 
band and  wife  but  that  of  novelty,  excitement,  and  physical 
desire.  But  there  were  no  discerning  eyes  about  them,  and  to 
every  member  of  Bertie's  family  their  youth,  their  devotion, 
their  presents,  their  wealth,  presented  a  delightful  and  satisfy- 
ing whole.  May  said  that  they  were  just  the  sweetest  and 
dearest  little  pair  in  the  world,  that  Lola  deferred  to  Bertie 
in  everything,  and  that  to  see  that  dear  boy — in  his  new  responsi- 
bilities, so  dignified  and  sensible — well 

May  became  incoherent,  and  wiped  her  smiling  eyes.  She 
began  fresh  plans  for  the  settling  in  life  of  her  darling  girls,  and 
the  girls  writhed  anew.  They  hated  to  go,  but  they  duly  went 
to  see  Lola  in  a  house  in  Sausalito — for  Saucelito  was  Sausalito 
now,  some  purist  having  discovered  the  error  in  the  old  way 
of  spelling  it.  Bertie  and  Lola  had  taken  a  somewhat  more 
pretentious  house  than  they  had  anticipated;  it  chanced  to  be 
for  rent,  partly  furnished,  and  after  seeing  it  they  found  every- 
thing else  uninteresting.  It  was  of  dark  brown  shingles,  with  a 
dozen  large  rooms,  porches,  fireplaces,  hardwood  floors.  Lola 
exulted  in  the  thought  of  being  mistress  here,  and  Bertie  felt  that 
it  was  financially  possible — anything  was  financially  possible. 

It  proved  to  be  cold  and  draughty,  especially  with  only  two 
persons  occupying  it.  Breakfast  in  the  big  dark  dining  room 
alone  was  a  dreary  meal  for  Bertie,  and  he  and  Lola  shivered  at 
their  dinner.  There  was  an  enormous  amount  of  sweeping 
necessary,  indoors  and  out;  the  porches  were  always  coated  with 
wet  leaves.  They  had  exclaimed,  upon  finding  it,  that  it  would 
be  a  wonderful  place  in  which  to  entertain;  but  once  in  it,  with 
one  vigorous,  ignorant  maid,  the  entertaining  somehow  faded 
from  their  plans.    Lola  spent  the  first  winter  curled  up  anywhere 

333 


334    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

that  she  could  be  warm,  and  their  only  guests  were  Bertie's 
family. 

Vick  and  Tina  and  Esme  and  Lou,  Steve  and  May,  Fanny  and 
Lucy,  Alice  and  Georgie  and  Uncle  Bob  and  Uncle  Harry,  all 
were  invited  to  see  the  new  establishment,  and  all  exclaimed 
about  the  wedding  silver  and  mahogany  and  glassware,  the 
pictures  and  clocks.  It  seemed  miraculous  that  everything 
fitted  so  wonderfully. 

Grandpa  Crabtree  did  not  come,  for  he  was  not  only  feeble 
now,  but  decidedly  childish,  and  the  Senoritas  did  not  come, 
because  they  never  went  anywhere.  Usually  they  all  got  to 
church  at  Christmas  and  Easter,  and  occasionally  one  or  two 
went  to  church  during  the  year,  on  Sundays.  But  they  only 
laughed  unctuously  when  Bertie,  somewhat  hurt,  coaxed  them 
to  come  and  see  him  and  his  wife,  and  told  the  young  couple 
that  they  must  come  to  the  ranch  instead. 

Lola  was  not  a  good  housekeeper,  and  loved  to  go  to  the  ranch, 
where  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  sleep.  She  had  an  amazing 
appetite  for  sleep,  she  liked  to  lie  in  bed  almost  all  day,  her 
rather  thin  dark  hair  in  a  braid,  and  her  aunts,  and  countless 
women  pensioners  of  the  ranch — they  could  not  be  called  ser- 
vants—  coming  and  going  with  trays,  with  fine  lace-work,  with 
babies  and  dogs. 

Bertie  was  genuinely  amazed,  a  little  amused,  a  little  shocked. 
She  had  long  ago  told  him  that  she  was  as  lazy  as  a  lizard,  but 
it  had  seemed  to  mean  nothing  then,  whispered  laughingly  in 
the  decent,  orderly  surroundings  of  his  own  home.  He  did  not 
know  exactly  where  he  fitted  in,  on  these  Sunday  visits  to  the 
ranch.  If  he  rose  early — and  eight  o'clock  was  early — he  would 
meet  a  loosely  robed,  sleepy,  protesting  senorita  in  the  big, 
airy  upper  hall. 

What  was  the  matter — he  was  not  ill?  He  must  go  back  to 
bed;  there  would  be  some  breakfast  presently;  Lotta  would 
bring  it  upstairs. 

There  was  no  morning  newspaper  at  the  ranch.  Bertie  might 
wander  good-naturedly  through  the  little  adobe  settlement 
behind  the  big  house,  surprising  loud  joyous  shrieks  from 
stalwart  Mexican  women,  washing  the  upper  parts  of  their 
brown  bodies  at  wooden  tubs,  and  grabbing  covering,  splashing 
and  laughing  at  the  intrusion.  The  slanting  autumn  sun  would 
send  lances  through  the  eucalyptus,  and  over  the  high  roofs 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    335 

of  the  sheds  and  barns.  The  world  would  smell  pleasantly  of 
cows  and  dry  grass  and  sunwarmed  earth,  shot  with  whiffs  of 
onions  and  oil  frying  together. 

Or  he  might  ride  over  and  have  breakfast  with  Mama  and  the 
girls;  such  a  sweet,  orderly  breakfast,  with  Tina's  lisle  gloves 
and  prayer  book  waiting,  up  next  to  the  black  marble  clock  on 
the  mantel,  and  Vicky's  fresh,  firm  neck  smelling  faintly  of  fine 
soap,  where  he  kissed  it. 

Bertie  would  drink  in  the  details  of  the  fresh  cloth,  the  old 
silver  spoons  erect  in  the  silver  mug,  the  glancing  lights  on 
Tina's  muffins  and  on  the  steaming  coffee  urn.  Lou  would 
have  put  late  sweet  peas  in  the  centre;  Vick,  if  it  was  her  turn 
to  be  cook,  would  bring  in  the  omelette,  a  special  welcome  for 
Bertie  under  her  usual  vivacious  nonsense.  He  loved  them  all 
so  dearly,  in  these  days. 

He  would  go  back,  at  eleven,  to  find  Lola  rested  and  vivacious 
over  her  coffee  tray.  He  must  have  another  cup,  and  then 
she  would  get  out  of  bed  and  into  his  arms,  as  he  sat  in  the 
wicker  rocker  at  the  window,  and  they  would  have  an  interval 
of  kissing  and  murmuring.  Aunts  would  begin  to  filter  in, 
dressed  and  pomaded  and  armed  with  fans  for  the  day;  perhaps 
a  rabble  of  dogs  would  waddle  after;  and  Lola  would  spring  back 
into  bed,  lazily  interested  in  the  time.  One  o'clock,  was  it? 
Gracious ! 

There  was  an  enormous  meal  at  two;  but  she  did  not  come 

downstairs  for  it.     She  nibbled  cakes  in  bed,  all  afternoon.    She 

and  the  household's  score  of  women  chattered  Spanish  etern- 

!   ally;  it  distressed  and  annoyed  Bertie,  even  though  he  knew  that, 

I  as  the  man  of  the  place,  he  was  an  important  figure  in  their  eyes, 

I  by  no  means  to  be  scorned  or  disregarded. 

At  five  o'clock  Lola  would  be  beautifully  dressed,  down  in  the 
1  odorous  old  parlour,  rippling  scales  and  operatic  gems,  con 
I  variazione,  on  the  square  piano.  Then  she  would  challenge 
I  Bertie  to  a  ride,  or,  if  it  were  a  working  day,  and  he  in  town,  she 
I  would  drive  five  miles  to  the  station,  to  meet  him.  Dinner  was 
1  supposedly  at  seven,  but  there  was  no  time  in  Lola's  scheme  of 
i   life. 

At  home  she  always  breakfasted  in  bed;  Bertie  did  not  mind. 
He  dressed  in  cautious  silence,  before  he  left  the  bedroom  he 
would  stoop  over  to  kiss  her,  and  the  soft  olive  arm  would  come 
up  to  catch  him  in  a  strangling  embrace. 


336         CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Ah,  he  was  her  darling — her  dove — the  heart  of  her  heart — 
the  little  drop  of  blood  of  Mary's  Son!"  she  would  murmur, 
in  passionate  Spanish. 

After  the  first  call,  there  seemed  to  be  no  special  reason  why- 
Bertie's  sisters  should  come  frequently  to  Sausalito,  and  to 
May's  great  distress,  they  frankly  expressed  themselves  as  un- 
willing to  do  so.  Lola  was  always  in  town,  going  to  lunch  with 
Bertie,  or  she  had  gone  up  to  her  aunts,  they  protested. 

"I  wish  to-morrow,"  May  said,  at  luncheon  one  day,  "two  of 
you  girls  would  go  over  to  the  city,  lunch  with  Aunt  Fanny, 
get  me  some  things  at  Michel  Wand's  and  go  and  see  Lola, 
coming  home." 

It  was  a  dreamy,  sunshiny  day,  in  October;  rendered  even 
dreamier  and  more  hazy  than  usual  by  distant  mountain  fires, 
whose  drifts  of  pale  blue  smoke  were  plainly  visible  from  the 
upper  gate  of  the  Brewers'  back  lot,  to  which  the  girls  made 
frequent  journeys  of  inspection. 

"I  thought  Bertie  and  Lola  were  coming  over  here  for  lunch 
Sunday,  Mama?"  Lou  said,  adding  more  grape  skins  to  the 
pyramid  on  her  plate.  "Are  we  to  go  on  babying  Bertie's  wife, 
now  that  he  has  gone?" 

"Lou,  is  that  a  nice  way  to  speak  to  Mama?" 

"Well,  my  gracious,  Mama,  why  should  we  traipse " 

"Lou,  I  won't  have  that  tone!  I  don't  know  what's  got  into 
you! — I'm  sorry,  Mama!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Mama,"  Lou  echoed  dully,  with  impenitent  scorn. 
She  mumbled  further  protest  into  the  hard,  sweet,  luscious  heart 
of  a  large  muscat. 

"You  and  Vicky  can  go,"  May  pursued,  after  a  pause  for  re- 
covery. 

"Unless  the  fire  gets  worse,  Mama;  we  don't  want  to  miss  the 
fun!"  Vicky  agreed  obligingly. 

"For  pity's  sake,"  her  mother  said,  "don't  even  mention  it! 
It  makes  me  perfectly  sick  with  nervousness  just  to  hear  the 
men  going  by  the  gate,  and  to  smell  it!" 

"Grace  and  I  walked  up  as  far  as  the  convent  gate  this  morn- 
ing," Tina  said,  "and  Sister  Mercedes  told  us  that  cinders  were 
floating  down,  way  up  by  their  arbour.  Grace  is  terribly 
scared,  you  know,  Mama " 

She  added  the  last  three  words  with  a  significant  look  for  her 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    337 

mother.  May  knew  that  Tina  knew  that  Vera  was  to  have  a 
dear  little  brother,  in  five  or  six  months,  and  May  and  Tina  had 
had  a  solemn  little  talk  about  it.  Tina  was  to  spend  as  much 
time  as  she  could  with  Grace,  who  was  wretchedly  ill  and  labour- 
ing with  financial  troubles,  as  well  as  with  a  fractious  and 
teething  baby,  but  May  had  stipulated  that  Tina  and  Grace 
were  not  to  discuss  the  coming  event  in  any  way. 

"Oh,  Mama,  as  if  Grace  would !"  Tina  had  said  eagerly,  "why, 
she  told  me  that  the  other  night  she  spoke  of  it  to  Vernon,  even, 
and  he  said  so  sweetly  that  if  she  would  put  it  entirely  out  of 
her  mind,  and  just  remember  that  it  was  perfectly  natural,  and 
God's  will,  she  wouldn't  have  all  these  blue,  depressing  moods! 
She  never  mentions  it  to  me!" 

"That's  right!"  May  had  said,  approvingly.  She  knew  she 
could  trust  Tina,  and  rewarded  her  delicate  little  intimation 
now  with  a  motherly  smile.  Vicky  looked  from  one  face  to  the 
other  with  perfect  comprehension;  and  a  daring,  and  she  knew 
immodest,  thought,  thrilled  her  through  and  through.  Oh,  it 
must  be  exciting  to  have  a  baby!     And  if  she  married  Davy 

After  luncheon  she  and  Tina  and  Lou  walked  back  of  the 
house  to  look  at  the  fire  again;  the  smoke  was  certainly  denser, 
and  the  girls'  hearts  quickened  with  excitement.  Little  Mrs. 
Torrey  was  sitting  out  in  the  yard,  in  the  muffled  shafts  of  the 
sunlight;  the  nurse  was  still  there.  She  told  them,  after  they 
had  duly  inspected  the  sleeping,  lumpy  little  baby,  that  Eric  had 
said  that  if  it  was  worse,  to-night,  they  must  pack  some  things, 
and  go  over  to  town  on  the  nine  o'clock.  Pale,  and  with  the 
anxious  look  of  new  motherhood  in  her  proud  and  happy  eyes, 
she  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  Brewer  sisters. 

"We  have  no  trunk,  and  just  the  telescope  and  the  clothes- 
basket,"  she  smiled,  "but  Baby  must  be  the  first  consideration, 
of  course.     We  couldn't  have  anything  happen " 

She  had  never  known  that  look,  two  weeks  ago,  that  protect- 
ing, alert,  responsible  look.  But  her  whole  heart,  so  recently 
carefree,  was  chained  now  to  the  terror  of  something  happening 
to  the  baby. 

"How  are  you?"  Victoria  asked  encouragingly,  "you — you 
were  pretty  sick,  weren't  you?" 

The  mother  and  nurse  exchanged  a  cryptic,  smiling  look. 

"No — o!"  said  Amy  Torrey,  who  had  died  a  thousand 
agonized  deaths  two  weeks  ago  to-day,  and  had  told  herself  that 


338    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

she  would  kill  herself  before  risking  another  such  event.  "I'd 
do  it  all  again  for  my  little  bunny!"  she  told  them. 

They  climbed  the  hill.  Fire  brigades  passed  them,  sweating 
men  in  dark  shirts,  shouting  in  the  hot  haze  and  dust.  Women 
passed  them,  women  who  like  themselves  had  come  up  to  look 
at  the  fire.  Victoria  delighted  in  the  common  danger  that  made 
these  women  forget  themselves  completely,  waive  introductions, 
stand  exchanging  apprehensive  words  while  they  watched.  Lily 
Duvalette  was  there,  conspicuous  in  a  striped  yellow  and  red 
blazer,  noisy  in  a  mixed  group  from  the  hotel. 

"Why  don't  you  girls  come  over  and  have  lunch  with  me?" 
she  called. 

"Yes,  why  don't  we?"  Lou  murmured  scornfully,  as  Victoria 
answered  with  only  a  false,  mechanical  smile.  The  memory  of 
this  smile  made  them  laugh  hysterically  when  they  trooped 
home  in  the  hot  red  afternoon  light  to  report  to  their  mother. 

"Why  don't  we  come  to  lunch!"  Victoria  repeated,  "I  like 
her  style!"  Lily's  brazen  monopoly  of  all  men  had  long  ago 
estranged  all  women.  Lily  cared,  Lou  and  Vicky  said,  only  for 
"cases/3 

Their  father  was  at  home,  and  eagerly  they  led  him  out  past 
the  Torrey  house,  to  see  for  himself.  He  secretly  delighted 
them,  in  spite  of  their  voluble  protests  and  reiterated  fears,  by 
regarding  the  menace  as  extremely  grave. 

When  they  went  back  he  reduced  his  wife  to  an  utter  misery 
of  fear  by  saying  that  she  had  better  get  a  few  things  together — 
if  the  thing  once  got  over  that  hill,  into  the  grass,  the  whole  town 
was  doomed !  Wild  with  enthusiasm,  the  girls  ran  about  busily 
and  efficiently:  this,  Mama?  and  this,  Mama?  and  where  should 
they  go — Grandpa's?  To  a  hotel!  They  had  never  been  to  a 
hotel. 

Stephen  thoroughly  soused  the  side  gardens  and  the  roof 
with  water,  the  swish  and  drip  inspiring  the  girls  as  they  ran- 
sacked bureaus  and  closets.  Their  coats,  here,  where  they  could 
grab  them,  and  all  sorts  of  small  treasures  in  the  coat  pockets. 
At  half-past  four  Davy  Dudley  was  suddenly  perceived  talking 
to  their  father  beside  the  side  faucet.  Victoria  felt  that  life  was 
sweet  and  exciting  enough,  at  last!  As  she  made  a  demure 
errand  out  to  greet  the  caller,  her  heart  was  brimming  with  bliss. 
What  a  dear  good  honest  face  his  was,  and  what  a  look  he  gave 
her  trim,  aproned  figure  and  mischievous,  glowing  face! 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  339 

He  had  come  over  to  see  them,  and  had  no  further  engage- 
ments; he  proved  a  friend  in  need.  For  May  was  almost  in 
tears  over  her  best  china,  the  precious  half  of  the  Canton  set 
that  had  been  in  the  dining-room  closet  almost  since  the  closet 
was  built.  Davy  suggested  that  they  put  it  down  the  cellar, 
and  the  girls  laughed  and  joked  as  they  passed  and  repassed 
each  other  with  loads  of  the  sturdy  thick  pink-and-green  plat- 
ters and  cups. 

Victoria  remained  in  the  cellar,  ranging  the  set  upon  the  al- 
most empty  preserve  shelves.  When  a  moment  came  that 
found  Davy  and  herself  alone  she  said  suddenly: 

"  I  thought  you  might  come  over  here  before  this,  Davy." 

"What?"  David  said,  instantly  embarrassed  and  red.  "I — I 
really  came  to-day  to  say  good-bye!"  he  stammered,  clearing 
his  throat. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Victoria  said  quietly. 

"I  ought  to  have  gone  back  a  month  ago,"  David  added, 
somewhat  awkwardly.  "I  have  my  return  ticket,  you  know, 
from  old  Doran.  And  of  course  I've  been  losing  time!  But  my 
sister  Mary  was  sick,  and  'Lizabeth's  married  now  and  can't 
help,  and  Mother  had  a  fire  in  her  house,  boarders  all  moved  out. 
I  had  a  chance  to  take  old  Boone's  practise  while  he  was  East. 
I  couldn't  get  away!" 

"And  when  do  you  go?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon." 

He  could  have  sold  his  steamer  ticket,  and  helped  his  mother. 
Probably  he  didn't  have  the  ticket;  just  an  order,  or  the  money, 
the  girl  thought  stubbornly.  Well,  she  wasn't  going  to  argue 
with  him  or  to  laugh  as  if  it  was  all  a  joke.  They  had  joked  long 
enough.     She  dropped  her  head;  she  had  no  more  to  say. 

He  would  have  met  any  other  mood  bravely,  but  this  hurt 
him  and  tugged  oddly  at  his  heart.  He  knew,  long  before  this, 
that  he  liked  her,  that  he  judged  other  girls  by  what  he  remem- 
bered and  knew  of  Vicky  Brewer. 

"The  thing  is,  Vick,"  he  said,  all  reason  suddenly  melting 
away  and  an  odd  hoarseness  and  eagerness  taking  possession 
of  him.  "The  thing  is,  my  mother  hasn't  any  one  but  me,  you 
know.  I  don't  know  when  I'll  be  back,  I've  got  to  get  all  the 
interne  work  I  can.  I  teach  English  every  afternoon,  in  Berlin, 
to  get  through  my  hospital  work.     You  see?" 

The  heavens  had  opened,  down  here  in  the  cool  cellar  that 


34Q  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

smelled  of  working  preserves  and  cats  and  rotting  apples  and 
mouldy  trunks.  Victoria  put  her  soft,  dirty,  friendly  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Davy,  I  don't  mind  that!"  she  whispered,  trembling. 

"Last  load!"  Lou  sang,  coming  cautiously  down  the  narrow 
flight  from  the  kitchen.  Victoria  turned  back  to  her  shelves; 
her  heart  singing;  David  sprang  to  lift  the  china  from  Lou. 
They  had  no  other  chance. 

"Mama,"  Vicky  whispered,  a  few  minutes  later,  in  the  kit- 
chen, "ask  Davy  to  stay!     He's  been  working  so  hard " 

"My  dear,  I  don't  see  how  we  can!  It's  the  lamb  stew,  and 
there's  no  lettuce.     I  really  don't  think  he  expects " 

"Oh,  but  please,  Mama!  And  then  we're  going  up  to  see 
how  the  fire  is,  afterward!"  Victoria  was  briskly  cutting  yester- 
day's layer-cake,  pouring  canned  peaches  into  a  glass  bowl." 

"I'll  go  out!"  May's  motherly  figure  left  the  kitchen,  and 
Victoria  and  Tina  flew  about  with  supper-getting,  in  glorious 
spirits. 

But  fifteen  minutes  later,  when  they  announced  the  meal, 
Vicky  was  bitterly  disappointed  to  see  that  Davy  was  gone. 
May  appeared  blandly  unconcerned. 

"No,  dear,  I  didn't  say  anything  to  you  about  asking  him. 
I  said  I  would  come  out  and  see.  And  there  appeared  to  be  no 
reason  why  we  should.  I'm  sure  he  didn't  expect  it;  he  talked 
to  Papa  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  went  away." 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,"  Stephen  observed,  taking  his  place  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  "the  young  man  has  considerable  money 
to  waste  upon  travel!" 

"He  brought  an  invalid  old  man  home  from  Germany,  and 
Mr.  Doran  gives  him  the  trip,  Pa,"  Victoria  said  quietly,  hating 
everybody  and  everything. 

"No  stew,  Vick?  No  potatoes?  What  are  you  going  to  eat? 
I  see,"  Stephen  resumed  gravely.  "Well,  his  place  is  with  his 
mother,  in  Napa.  Wrong  idea — totally  false.  At  his  age,  I 
was  supporting  my  wife  and  babies!" 

"Very  ordinary  people,  no  family  at  all,  but  Davy  is  a  sweet 
dear  boy,  and  I  hope  we  will  always  be  friendly  with  him!"  May 
summarized,  with  a  brisk  air  of  finality.  Vicky  knew  that  her 
mother  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  situation. 

He  had  been  hungry — he  had  worked  and  laughed  and  run 
up  and  downstairs — and  he  would  have  stayed  if  he  had  been 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  341 

asked!  Victoria's  heart  boiled.  No  good-bye — no  sequel  to 
that  thrilling  moment  in  the  dimness  and  dirt,  down  by  the 
preserve  shelves.     And  to-morrow  he  was  going  away! 

She  made  her  supper  of  tea  and  toast,  enjoying  the  coolness 
with  which  she  could  parry  Mama's  and  Papa's  solicitude.  She 
just  wasn't  hungry,  she  repeated  with  deep  satisfaction.  After- 
ward she  helped  with  the  dishes  in  a  dignified,  abstracted  si- 
lence. May  fell  sufficiently  into  this  little  trap  to  ask  just  the 
questions  for  which  Vicky  had  been  hoping.  The  fire  made  the 
whole  town  hot  to-night;  the  kitchen  was  insufferable. 

"What  makes  our  Vicky  so  thoughtful?"  May  hinted. 

"Nothing,  Maraa!"( 

"Something  Mama  isn't  to  know?" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

May  fidgeted  and  fussed,  dissatisfied.  And  when,  later, 
Tina  and  Lou  and  Vicky  prepared  to  go  up  to  the  fire  with  their 
father,  the  anxious  mother  had  more  fears. 

"Vicky  dear,  if  ever  a  young  man  said  anything  to  you  that — 
made  you — thoughtful,  dear,  that  perhaps  you  couldn't  quite 
answer,  Mama  would  like  to  feel  that  you  would  tell  her  about 
it." 

"Certainly,  Mama!" 

"That's  your  real  protection,  Vicky,  your  real  safety,  you 
know ! " 

"I  know,  Mama!" 

May  could  say  no  more,  she  looked  at  the  handsome,  im- 
passive face  with  a  baffled  sort  of  anger  in  her  soul.  Thank 
goodness,  she  said  to  herself,  this  impecunious,  shabby,  common 
country  boy  was  leaving  the  country  in  a  few  hours ! 

Stephen  and  his  girls  walked  up  toward  the  hills,  to  the 
encroaching  wall  of  smoke,  again.  Half  the  town  was  there; 
women  in  tears,  children  shouting  shrilly,  men's  figures  sil- 
houetted against  the  dull  pink  glow.  The  air  was  thick  and 
acrid  with  bitter  smoke.  The  Brewer  girls  threaded  the  groups 
gaily,  talking,  exclaiming,  lamenting,  repeating  sentences 
back  and  forth.  Judge  Dufficy,  with  a  trio  of  his  own  little 
girls  hanging  on  his  arm,  came  over  to  Stephen.  It  looked  bad, 
they  agreed. 

Red  lights  and  lantern  lights  played  over  the  shifting  crowds 
against  the  background  of  trees.  The  foliage  looked  oddly 
artificial  in  the  artificial  light,  figures  came  and  went  confusedly* 


342    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Victoria,  standing  alone  in  pitchy  gloom,  was  absorbedly 
watching  the  thrilling  scene,  when  suddenly  something  warm 
and  smothering  caught  her,  arms  held  her,  and  a  face  touched 
hers.  Was  it  with  a  laugh  or  a  sob  that  this  breath-taking 
shadow  in  the  deeper  shadows  pressed  a  warm  cheek  to  hers, 
and  touched  her  lips  with  a  hard,  half-savage  kiss?  She  gasped, 
fighting  for  room  to  see  who  held  her,  although  she  knew,  and 
knew  Davy's  whisper: 

"Good-bye,  dear!     I — I  waited  for  this!     Good-bye,  Vick!" 

He  was  gone,  and  she  had  sent  one  frightened  glance  about  her 
in  the  darkness.  She  was  unseen.  She  was  breathing  like  a 
runner,  and  now  she  leaned  against  a  nearby  stone  wall  and 
panted,  feeling  shaken  and  weak. 

Through  all  her  body  the  ecstasy  of  it  ran  like  wine;  she  was 
thrilling  like  a  harp  smitten  suddenly  by  a  master  hand. 

"Oh — oh — oh!  Davy!"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  he  kissed 
me — that's  what  he  did!  He  kissed  me.  He  kissed  me  good- 
bye.    Davy!" 

After  awhile  she  stumbled  back  among  the  others,  carrying 
her  secret  like  a  concealed  jewel  of  untold  value.  Above  every- 
thing she  said  and  did  the  knowledge  of  that  stolen,  enchanted 
second  flamed  like  Northern  Lights.  The  night  was  balmy  with 
it,  the  moon  shone  among  fast-moving  inky  clouds,  just  for  that. 
Everything  was  sweet,  thrilling,  amusing. 

"Vicky,  were  you  talking  to  somebody,  over  there ?" 

"No,  Papa!" 

"I  thought  I  saw  somebody  with  you?     Was  it  David?" 

"No,  Papa;  it  must  have  been  somebody  else!" 

Stephen  looked  at  her  keenly  in  the  gloom. 

"It  looked  like  your  white  hat  over  there!"  Tina  said,  in- 
nocently. 

"Not  mine!"  Victoria  almost  sang  the  words;  she  would 
never  be  afraid  of  anybody  again !  "When  shall  you  be  alarmed, 
Papa?"  she  asked  cheerfully,  of  the  still-encroaching  fire.  Ste- 
phen did  not  answer;  he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders.  That 
had  been  Vicky  and  David  under  the  oaks,  he  told  himself. 
Had  he  kissed  her?     Would  she  dare  deny  it? 

A  great  many  buggies  were  rattling  out  of  town,  and  the  nine 
o'clock  train  for  Sausalito  was  filled  with  refugees.  But  the 
Brewers  remained,  feeling  heroic  in  their  decision  to  do  so.  They 
would  be  sensible — they  would  not  act  upon  terrified  impulse. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  343 

Nobody  went  to  bed,  and  as  they  went  back  and  forth  be- 
tween the  back  lot  and  the  hill,  the  late  hours  seemed  filled  with 
menace.  The  Torreys  were  gone,  their  little  house  was  dark. 
Eric  Torrey  had  indeed  made  an  almost  frantic  appeal  to 
Stephen,  for  help.  "I  don't  ask  it  for  myself,  sir,  but  my  wife 
is  in  a  serious  condition !"  the  young  husband  had  said,  agita- 
tedly, coming  to  them  at  the  fence. 

Vernon  Yelland  was  in  the  front  rank  of  fire-watchers,  offer- 
ing a  grave  and  logical  opinion,  based  upon  seasons,  tides,  air- 
currents,  and  atmospheric  pressure,  to  any  one  who  asked  it.  He 
told  Tina  that  his  idea  had  been  that  Grace  should  have  hot 
coffee  awaiting  the  fighters  all  night  long,  but  he  understood 
that  the  hotel  people  were  doing  that.  Long  afterward  Tina 
and  Grace  used  to  tell  each  other  of  the  townspeople's  surprise 
when  the  parson  tore  off  his  coat  and  went  after  the  flames  like 
a  madman,  at  about  midnight.  He  gave  his  coat  to  a  boy,  and 
it  was  subsequently  lost,  but  that  did  not  detract  from  his  wife's 
glowing  reception  of  him  when  he  came  home  at  four.  Every- 
one had  gone  home  then,  for  a  swift  and  merciful  rain  was  fall- 
ing. Grace  had  been  wakened  from  deep,  uneasy  sleep  by  his 
return;  she  felt  sick  and  stupid  as  she  blundered  about  the  gas- 
lighted  kitchen,  ministering  to  him.  They  both  hoped  to  get 
off  soundly  to  sleep  again  before  the  baby  waked,  but  Vera 
turned  and  whimpered  at  five  promptly,  her  fingers  on  her  pain- 
ful little  gums,  and  Grace  carried  her  into  the  kitchen,  so  that 
the  weary  fire-fighter  could  get  his  needed  rest. 

Victoria  awakened  to  a  new  world.  The  fire  was  out,  and 
in  the  quiet  autumn  day  everything  looked  washed  and  fresh. 
Dust  was  laid  by  the  rain,  the  air  still  held  the  strong  acrid  odour 
of  soaked,  burned  wood  and  wet  ashes.  Everyone  in  the 
Brewer  household  slept  late;  there  was  a  pleasant  irregularity 
about  the  eleven-o'clock  breakfast,  with  a  white  fog  slowly  ris- 
ing over  the  toneless  plumes  of  the  peppers,  and  the  dew  glisten- 
ing upon  the  tall,  shaggy  shafts  and  the  hanging,  motionless 
sickles  of  the  eucalyptus. 

Dishes  were  washed  and  beds  made  in  a  dreamy  silence.  Lou 
was  going  up  to  the  hotel  to  see  Daisy  and  Lily;  Victoria  walked 
therewith  her,  and  then  walked  on,  wrapped  in  a  thrilling  golden 
haze  of  remembering.  When  she  had  passed  the  convent,  and 
struck  into  the  winding  hills  toward  Sleepy  Hollow,  she  stopped 


344    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

under  a  great  oak,  and  sat  down,  her  enchanted  eyes   drinking 
in  the  scene  as  if  she  had  never  looked  upon  it  before. 

The  dry,  aromatic-scented  grasses  stretched  below  her, 
blotted,  in  the  tender  autumn  sunlight,  with  the  round  shadows 
of  sprawling  oaks.  The  burned  area  had  crept  down  into  a 
canon,  which  extended  a  charred  finger  into  the  duller  grays  and 
browns.  Below  lay  the  muffling  trees,  and  the  slants  and  angles 
of  familiar  homely  roofs;  and  from  them  all  the  railway  track 
ran,  a  sharp  straight  line,  through  level  stretches  of  marsh,  to 
the  blue-gray  blur  far  beyond  that  was  more  hills,  and  bays,  and 
sea.  A  glitter  through  the  marshes  showed  the  course  of  ca- 
nals; and  all  about,  like  the  circled  sides  of  a  bowl,  were  the  faint 
blue  rises  of  hill  chains,  hardly  a  tone  deeper,  on  this  dreaming 
blue  day,  than  the  faint  sky. 

Victoria  walked  home  by  the  Torrey  house;  mother  and 
baby  were  placidly  reestablished  on  the  front  porch.  Her  nurse 
had  gone,  called  to  another  case  this  morning,  said  Mrs.  Torrey 
cheerfully.  She  had  given  the  baby  his  bath  all  alone,  and  he 
was  just  a  little  lamb. 

Victoria  sat  on  the  upper  step,  flushed  and  smiling.  And 
presently  Amy  Torrey  was  telling  her  all  about  it :  when  the 
doctor  had  been  sent  for,  and  what  poor  Eric  said  and  did. 
Victoria  listened  hungrily;  all  this  seemed  personal  now. 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  sweet !"  murmured  Amy 
Torrey. 

"I  hope — I  shouldn't  want  to  marry  if  I  didn't  hope  for  one  of 
my  own!"  Victoria  said,  with  her  bright  daring  smile. 

"Is  there — a  Mr.  Right — in  the  prospect?"  the  other  woman 
asked,  eyes  widening  delightedly. 

Victoria  nodded,  flushed  afresh,  and  dimpled. 

"My  people  aren't  extremely  enthusiastic  about  him;  there 
are    money    difficulties,"    she    admitted.     Amy    was    sympa- 
thetic, indignant;  what  right  had  anyone  to  object?     Why,  she 
and  Eric  only  had  a  hundred  a  month,  and  it  was  nobody's  ' 
business  but  their  own! 

She  pressed  for  more  details,  but  Victoria  was  terrified  with  ! 
her  own  boldness!  She  had  carried  the  matter  too  far  already. 
She  played  with  the  great  topic  delicately  for  another  twenty 
minutes,  and  when  she  left,  Amy  Torrey  kissed  her  good-bye.  It' 
was  with  a  glowing  heart  that  she  walked  about  the  block; 
Grandpa,  through  his  agent,  had  been  slicing  off  town  lots  froni 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    345 

the  main  property  for  the  past  several  years,  and  now  the 
Brewer  house  had  a  scant  two  acres  left  of  its  original  forty.  The 
Torreys,  and  a  dozen  other  little  home-owners,  were  making 
monthly  payments  for  their  places. 

Mama  was  introducing  a  new  cook,  a  stout,  elderly  German 
woman,  to  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  kitchen. 

"Your  salt  and  pepper,  handy,  right  here,"  Victoria  heard 
her  say.  "We  all  like  our  eggs  differently — breakfast  will  be  at 
half-past  seven  for  Mr.  Brewer,  and  my  daughters  and  I  come 
down  later.     The  garbage  goes     .     .     ." 

Victoria  slipped  upstairs.  The  blessedness  of  having  no 
table  to  set,  and  no  dishes  to  wash,  while  Frederika  lasted,  any- 
way! She  had  some  delightful  new  writing  paper:  "Scotch 
Heather,"  the  box  called  it.     She  began  her  first  letter  to  Davy. 

"Davy  dear " 

She  hesitated;  were  they  engaged?  Her  first  sickening  doubt 
came  into  being.  But  she  briskly  dismissed  it.  They  loved 
each  other,  anyway.     That  was  all  that  mattered. 

"Davy  dear,  I  have  been  thinking,  and  I  know  you  have " 

"What  is  it,  Mama?"  asked  Victoria,  instinctively  pushing 
the  nearest  thing — it  happened  to  be  what  was  called  a  "picture- 
card,"  soaked  with  Hoyt's  German  Cologne — across  the  writing, 
and  looking  up  innocently  as  her  mother  came  in. 

"Dearie,"  May  began.  "Writing  letters?"  she  asked, 
diverted. 

"I  thought  I  would.     .     .     ."     Victoria  yawned. 

"To  Alice?" 

"No-00-00!"  Victoria  carelessly  tore  into  pieces  the  com- 
menced epistle,  closed  her  desk,  dropped  the  fragments  into  the 
waste-basket,  and  turned,  smiling  gallantly,  to  face  her  mother. 
"It  wasn't  anything!"  she  said.     "Just  scribbling." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  scribble  on  my  beautiful  birthday  paper," 
May  suggested*  "Dearie,  you  will  have  to  go  to  town  on  the 
jfour-twenty.  The  telephone  just  rang,  and  when  she  said  long 
Idistance  wanted  me  I  had  such  a  fright!  I  thought  of  course 
your  grandafather — however,  it  was  Mrs.  Pembroke,  wanting 
Lou  to  go  over  and  have  dinner  with  them,  and  go  to  the 
Baldwin  and  stay  the  night " 

"Lou!  Why  Lou?  Esme's  their  friend — at  least  she's 
Jenny's  friend " 

"Lou  met  Frank   Pembroke   at  Daisy's  last  week,   and  I 


346    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

imagine — "  May  stopped  with  a  significant  pressure  of  her 
lips,  and  arched  brows.  "Frank  is  younger  than  Esme — never 
has  been  attentive "  she  reasoned. 

"And  where  do  I  come  in  ?"  Victoria  asked,  her  thoughts  upon 
the  scraps  in  the  scrap  basket. 

"You'll  have  to  go  over  with  Lou,  dear,"  May  said,  thinking 
of  the  same  thing;  "she  can't  go  alone.  Stay  with  Aunt  Fanny 
and  have  a  little  visit  with  Grandpa.  I  want  you  to  go  to 
Quade  and  McKay's  to-morrow,  and  Wangenheim,  Sternheim's 
about  the  cups,  I'll  give  you  a  list.  And  change  the  library 
books.  You  and  Lou  might  have  a  soda  at  Maskey's,  if  you 
like.  But  don't  miss  the  eleven-forty-five  home,  for  Esme  has 
that  buzzing  in  her  head  again,  and  I  think  I'll  take  her  in  to 
Doctor  Pawlicki." 

Victoria  nodded,  well  pleased.  Things  seemed  to  be  always 
happening  nowadays;  it  was  very  satisfactory.  Yesterday, 
Davy  and  the  fire;  to-day,  an  unexpected  trip  into  town  and  a 
prospective  beau  for  Lou.  When  her  mother  left  the  room  and 
Lou  had  come  flying  up,  excited  and  radiant,  they  began  the 
familiar,  yet  always  thrilling,  preparations  for  town.  Stiff  white 
petticoats,  knitted  worsted  underskirts,  heavy  tucked  corset- 
covers,  new  satin  ribbon  stocks,  silk  belts  knowingly  drawn  in- 
to silver  buckles,  high  buttoned  kid  shoes,  lisle  stockings  with 
white  heels  and  toes,  white  gloves  odorous  of  benzine.  They 
packed  two  telescope  baskets;  there  was  some  running  about 
to  borrow  Tina's  and  Mama's  new  straps. 

But  even  before  Lou  came  up,  Vicky  had  found  in  the  scrap- 
basket  the  tiny  diagonal  of  paper  that  held  the  word  "Davy," 
and  had  chewed  it  to  harmless  pulp.  Mama  mightn't,  of  course. 
But  then  again,  Mama  might. 

"Don't  you  feel  sorry  for  poor  Lola — alone  all  day?"  Lou 
asked  contentedly,  when  they  were  floating  on  the  placid  blue 
bay  a  few  hours  later,  and,  from  the  deck  of  the  turning  San 
Rafael  they  could  look  up  at  the  windows  of  Sausalito. 

Vicky  nodded,  happily;  it  was  delicious  to  pity  Lola. 

"Lou,  do  you  like  Frank  Pembroke?"  she  asked,  somewhat 
shyly. 

Lou  was  different  from  her  sisters;  she  was  a  mysteriously 
self-sufficient  little  person.  Except  for  Victoria,  she  was  the 
prettiest  of  the  girls.  Victoria's  vivacious,  spirited  beauty  made 
Lou  look  a  little  babyish   and  flat.     But  her  buttonhole  of  a 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    347 

mouth  was  like  a  doll's,  and  since  the  age  of  twelve  she  had 
known  exactly  how  to  fix  her  hair. 

"Yes,  I  like  Frank,"  she  admitted  now,  with  a  calm  Vicky 
thought  amazing.  "But  it's  really  Frank's  friend,  Howard 
Palmer,"  she  continued  thoughtfully. 

Victoria  rightly  inferred  that  the  word  "it"  indicated  the 
person  indirectly  responsible  for  this  flattering  invitation. 

"And  do  you  like  him,  Lou?" 

"He's  stunning — plays  polo  and  has  horses.  He's  from  the 
east.  Yes,  of  course  I'd  marry  him,"  said  Lou,  biting  together 
the  ripped  tip  of  a  glove-finger,  "or  I'd  marry  Frank,  for  that 
matter.     But — you'll  see.     Mama'll  queer  it!" 

"Oh,  Lou,  how  do  you  mean?"  Victoria  gasped. 

"And  if  she  doesn't,  Papa  will!"  Lou  added,  darkly.  "How? 
Why,  the  way  they  always  do!  Look  at  Esme — what  chance 
has  she  ever  had!     Somebody  spying  on  her  all  the  time !" 

"But,  Lou,"  Victoria  said  dazedly,  "they  have  to  watch 
us!" 

"Well,"  Lou  said,  indifferently,  "I  know  that  I'm  going  to 
marry  the  first  man  that  asks  me — that's  all.  Watch  us !  Why, 
no  man  is  ever  going  to  marry  any  one  until  he's  kissed  them!" 
Lou  finished,  ungrammatically  but  firmly.  "I've  watched 
Esme — poor  old  Es',  she  could  have  had  men  crazy  about  her — 
and  I've  watched  Tina.  Vernon  Yelland  makes  me  sick  at  my 
stomach,  but  she  liked  him — she  might  just  as  well  have  had  him 
as  Grace!     And  you,  Vick,  why,  you're  stunning " 

Victoria  was  drinking  deep  of  a  new  and  fearful  wine.  She 
laughed,  flushed. 

"I  believe  you!"  she  said. 

"I  know  it,"  Lou  resumed.  "At  the  hotel  dance  the  other 
night,"  said  this  terrible  junior,  warmly,  "I  was  supposed  to  be 
chaperoned  by  Daisy's  aunt.  Daisy's  aunt!  She  was  playing 
euchre  the  whole  time.  I  went  out  on  the  porch  with  this 
Howard  Palmer — I  had  on  my  dimity — and  we  got  talking — of 
kissing.     I  said  that     .     .     .     well,  anyway.     ..." 

"Lou!"  Victoria  breathed,  after  an  electric  silence,  "Did  he 
kiss  you  ? " 

"Why,  of  course  he  did !  And  then  I  danced  with  other  men, 
and  he  was  wild  until  he  got  another  dance  with  me,  and  then  we 
,went  out  on  the  porch  again ! " 

"Oh,  but  Lou,  you  knew  he'd  kiss  you  again!" 


348    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well,  of  course  I  did!  But  we  were  talking,  and  telling 
each  other  about  other  crushes.     .     .     ." 

Lou  smiled,  cryptically.  Victoria  was  silent,  frowning,  think- 
ing. 

"Mama  would  be  wild,  Lou!"  she  v*  itured. 

"It's  none  of  Mama's  business!"  Lo    said  serenely. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Victoria  presently  argued,  "but  last  summer, 
I  met  an  awfully  nice  fellow- — on  that  yachting  trip,  Ted  Green. 
College  man,  and  all  that.  And  he  was  awfully  fresh — and  he — 
yes,  he  did,  he  kissed  me,  in  a  sort  of  scrambling  way,  you 
know.     .     .     ." 

"I  know!"  Lou  nodded,  bright  eyes  on  her  sister. 

"Well,  but  he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  so  much,  afterward!" 
Vicky  confessed,  her  cheeks  hot. 

"Oh,  well,  that  was  just  luck — the  crowd — and  it  was  a  hot 
Sunday,  and  all  that!"  Lou,  who  before  this  had  had  the  details 
of  that  dreadful  day  from  Victoria,  decided  promptly.  "But 
the  truth  is,  men  don't  like  ladylike,  refined  girls,  Vick,"  she 
added,  positively.  "And  Mama  has  no  business  to  teach  us  that 
they  do !  If  she  wants  us  to  marry,  she  has  no  business  not  to  let 
men  kiss  us,  and  all  that!  I'm  going  to  marry,  but  I'm  going 
to  take  darn  good  care  that  Mama  doesn't  know  anything  about 
it.  Howard  asked  to  come  to  San  Rafael,  and  I  said  no.  I  said 
'Too  much  family !'*' 

"Lou,  aren't  you  terrible!"  Vicky  gasped,  in  horror  and  de- 
light. And  presently  she  was  telling  Lou  about  (Davy,  and  a 
little  mutual  compact  of  silence  and  help  was  entered  into  be- 
tween them. 

"But,  Lord,  Vicky!  You'll  have  to  wait  years!"  said  the 
practical  Lou. 

"I  know.     But  I  don't  care!"  Victoria  answered  happily. 

"And  then  you'll  let  yourself  in  for  poverty  and  everything," 
objected  the  younger  sister.     "Like  Nelly!" 

"Oh,  I'll  love  it!" 

Lou  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"You're  in  love  with  him!"  she  marvelled. 

Victoria  laughed,  bit  her  lip,  looked  out  toward  the  Golden 
Gate.     Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

Life  was  so  exciting!  She  would  not  have  changed  places 
with  any  one,  when  she  had  carefully  seen  Lou  to  the  Jackson 
Street  car  and  was  walking  up   the  long  block  to  California 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  349 

Street.  She  sat  on  the  dummy,  remembering  resentfully,  in  this 
new  estimate  of  Mama  and  Papa,  that  they  had  never  allowed 
their  daughters,  as  little  girls,  this  privilege.  Bertie  might  sit 
outside;  he  was  a  boy.     But  little  ladies  were  better  inside. 

Exciting  to  find  Aunt  Fanny  just  leaving  for  a  marketing 
round  on  Polk  Street,  and  to  accompany  her  into  bakery  and 
candy  store.  It  appeared  that  Lucy  and  Alice  and  that  doctor 
of  Alice's  were  calling  to-night;  and  Fanny  was  going  to  have 
layer-cake  and  lemonade  and  mottoes. 

"Just  a  little  bite  for  'em,  seemed  pleasanter!"  Fanny  tossed 
off  casually.  But  she  was  pleased  with  Vicky's  enthusiasm: 
why,  it  was  going  to  be  a  real  party  ! 

"Aunt  Fanny,  do  you  suppose  Alice  is  really  engaged?" 

"Looks  like  it!     Funny "  Miss  Fanny  said.     "He's  got  a 

daughter  almost's  old  as  she  is." 

Exciting  again.  Victoria  walked  on  air.  She  and  her  aunt 
dined  alone,  Carra  passing  silently  through  the  room  once  or 
twice  with  the  old  man's  tray.  Fanny  hated  this,  and  in  freer 
times  she  had  once  or  twice  suggested  that  Carra  use  the  steep, 
unlighted  back  stairway  when  a  meal  was  in  progress.  But  of 
late  she  had  dared  make  no  comment. 

There  was  no  dessert  for  dinner  to-night,  because  there  were 
to  be  refreshments  later.  Victoria  tore  upstairs  and  rearranged 
her  dark,  rich  hair,  her  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement,  and  she 
thought  she  looked  rather  pretty.  She  and  Fanny  were  restless 
in  spite  of  themselves,  as  they  waited  for  the  callers,  Fanny 
reading  The  Church  Visitor,  and  Vick  looking  at  the  Dore  illus- 
trations of  Dante's  "Inferno." 

The  bell  rang;  Maggie  lumbered  through  the  hallway.  They 
heard  Lucy's  rich,  deep  voice  in  a  laugh,  a  strange  man's  voice. 
Fanny  went  to  the  jingling  bead  portiere  at  the  front  parlour 
door  that  opened  into  the  hall. 

"Well,  this  is  nice  of  you.    .    .    ." 

Alice's  doctor  looked  old,  Vicky  thought  instantly.  Well, 
of  course  he  was  old:  forty-two.  He  was  extremely  dark,  dark 
hair,  dark  eyes,  square  beard.  He  had  a  delightfully  polished 
manner,  sending  his  bright  smiling  eyes  from  Aunt  Fan  to  Lucy 
and  back  again  in  an  almost  filial  fashion. 

They  sat  about  the  front  room  in  a  circle  for  awhile,  and  then 
went  into  the  dining-room,  and  had  the  cocoanut  layer-cake, 
fluffy,  white,  and  sticky,  and  the  lemonade,  and  the  mottoes. 


350    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Alice,  tell  me — you  are  engaged?"  Victoria  questioned  her 
cousin,  when  they  went  up  to  Fanny's  stuffy,  orderly  bedroom 
for  a  minute.     Alice  dimpled,  looked  down,  and  shrugged. 

"What  can  you  do,"  she  asked,  "when  people  won't  take  no 
for  an  answer?" 

"But  do  you  love  him?"  Victoria  whispered,  properly  awed. 

"Mama's  crazy  about  him!'  Alice  answered,  after  thought. 
"It's  all  different  from  what  you  would  think,  Vick!"  she 
confided  suddenly.  And  with  a  puzzled  frown  and  a  momen- 
tary stare  into  space,  she  added:  "How  can  you  tell?  I  like  him 
— he's  fine,  and  all  that.  But  I  don't  know  how  you  ought  to  feel 
about  a  man  when  you  marry  him !  I  try  to  think  it  out,  some- 
times. But  I  guess  it's  just  like  anything  else  .  „  .  the 
girls  used  to  talk,  at  the  hospital,  sometimes.  .  .  ."  She 
flushed,  scowled,  and  laughed  suddenly.  "I  don't — I  don't  be- 
lieve I'd  ever  be  crazy  about  a  man,  Vick!"  she  finished,  some- 
what vaguely. 

"You  mean  like  to  have  his  arms  about  you,  and  have  him  kiss- 
ing you?"  Victoria  supplied,  interestedly. 

Alice  turned  scarlet. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake!"  she  stammered,  arresting  fingers 
against  her  cousin's  lips.  "Vicky,"  she  added  suddenly,  "I 
wish  we  knew  more  about  it  .  ..  .  marriage,  I  mean.  Sup- 
pose one  got  into  it,  and  didn't    .     .     .     didn't  like  it!" 

"Do  you  suppose  there's  an  awful  lot  of  kissing?"  Vick  whis- 
pered. 

Alice  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  subject  was  too  vital  to  her 
ignorant  hopes  and  fears. 

"I  don't  know.  That's  just  it!"  she  whispered  back,  suf- 
focating. "I  like  the  idea  of  a  house,  and  friends  in  to  dinner/' 
she  added,  anxiously.  "But  I  don't  know — Frank's  been 
married  before,  though.  Maybe  that  would  .  .  .  make  a 
difference!" 

And  both  girls,  confused  by  this  touching  upon  a  forbidden 
subject,  nervous,  excited,  and  hardly  knowing  what  they 
thought  or  surmised,  broke  into  almost  hysterical  giggling. 

"You  know  I'm — Davy  and  I "  Victoria  presently  con- 
fided.    Alice  looked  at  her,  horrified. 

"Vicky  Brewer!     But  he  hasn't  five  cents!" 

"I  know  he  hasn't." 

"But  he's  got  his  mother,  all  his  family     .     .     .     and  he's 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    351 

working    to    pay    his    post-graduate    expenses     .     .     .     Oh, 
Vicky  "  begged  Alice,  "does  your  mother  approve?  " 

"Nobody  even  knows!  But,"  said  Vicky  proudly,  "when  I 
think  of  .  .  .  what  we  were  just  talking  about  .  .  . 
kissing,  you  know,  and  having  children  .  .  .  then  I  know 
that  I  love  him!" 

Alice's  disapproving  expression  did  not  abate. 

"But,  Vick,  that's  only  part  of  it!"  she  protested  eagerly. 

"Mama  says  that  it's  much  safer  for  a  girl  to  marry  a  man  she 

i  respects,  who  has  a  profession,  and  a  standing  in  the  community, 

and  let  the  rest  of  it  follow.     Why,  Davy  has  nothing     .     .     . 

you'd  be  like  poor  Nelly!" 

And  walking  home  between  Mama  and  Frank,  a  few  minutes 
later,  Alice  reflected  for  the  first  time  with  satisfaction  upon  the 
things  that  this  man  at  her  side  could  offer.  His  house,  his 
comfortable  income,  his  position,  his  well-established  practice, 
his  horse  and  buggy  .  .  .  these  things  did  count.  And 
as  for  the  quick,  authoritative  flash  in  his  smiling  eye  when  he 
differed  with  anybody,  and  the  dry,  hairy  odour  of  his  face 
when  he  kissed  her,  and  the  fussy  fashion  he  had  of  bothering 
her  with  the  mention  of  rubbers  and  umbrella  every  time  there 
was  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  why,  these  were  mere  trifles.  Poor 
Nelly,  and  poor  Vicky,  and  poor  Mama  who  had  struggled  with 
pennies  all  her  life!     How  much  richer  she  was  than  these! 

"You  wouldn't  be  a  real  girl  if  you  didn't  have  all  sorts  of 
little  terrors  and  misgivings!"  Lucy  told  her,  when  they  were 
going  to  bed. 

"But  Mama— Papa  doesn't  like  Frank!" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  did  a  father  ever  like  the  man  that  stole  his 
little  daughter  away!" 

Alice  smiled  foolishly;  Mama  was  of  course  right  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

VICKY  awakened  in  autumn  sunshine,  to  a  delicious 
sense  of  youth  and  health  and  content  with  life.  Sh( 
lay  listening  to  the  morning  sounds  of  the  house:  Aunt 
Fanny  was  talking  stridently,  but  far  away  behind  closed  doors, 
to  Maggie;  the  canary  was  bursting  his  throat  with  song  in  the 
dining-room  window,  and  Carra  was  crooning  softly  against 
an  intermittent  sound  of  running  water.  A  faucet  was  roughly 
turned  off,  and  the  pipes  thrummed  and  were  still.  The  front- 
door bell  rang  stridently. 

It  was  fun  to  be  at  Aunt  Fanny's.  Vicky  thought  she  would 
get  up;  although  one  was  never  punctual  at  breakfast  in  this 
house,  for  Maggie  was  always  agreeable  about  keeping  the  coffee 
hot,  and  Aunt  Fanny  rather  liked  her  breakfast,  with  the  paper 
and  the  letters,  alone.  There  would  be  long  slices  of  French 
bread  cut  in  thin  slants,  and  just  enough  cream. 

The  girl  yawned,  stretched,  rolled  out  of  bed,  and  went  cau- 
tiously to  the  window.  Sunshine  was  pouring  over  the  city,  but 
across  the  street  below,  the  wooden  houses  threw  gray  shadows, 
and  in  the  shadows  sidewalks  and  gardens  still  glistened  with 
dew.  Vicky's  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house;  she  could  see 
a  strip  of  blue  bay,  with  the  McDowell  cutting  a  great  silky  fan 
across  the  water  and  sending  up  an  occasional  puff  of  steam 
from  the  whistle. 

"Vick.  .  .  ."  The  unexpected  voice  behind  her  brought 
her  heart  into  her  throat;  she  turned  amazedly.  Bertie  was  in 
the  doorway,  his  face  serious  and  tear-streaked;  Aunt  Fanny 
was  behind  him.  "Vick,"  Bertie  said  gently,  coming  over  to 
her  as  she  sat  down  abruptly  on  the  bed,  in  her  nightgown, 
"you're  to  come  right  home.  Esme — Mama  sent  me  right 
over." 

"Esme  .  .  .  .?"  Victoria  echoed  stupidly  and  thickly. 
Bertie's  eyes  answered;  the  girl  looked  at  her  aunt. 

"Oh,  God  help  us  all — oo — oo — oooo!"  sobbed  and  moaned 

3S2 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    353 

Fanny,  breaking  down  completely.  She  sank  into  a  rocker. 
Victoria,  very  pale,  whispered  one  word. 

"Dead,"  Bertie  repeated,  beginning  to  cry  quite  simply,  and 
without  hiding  his  face.  He  gained  control  of  himself,  before 
Vicky's  wide-eyed,  awed  silence. 

"Bertie,  in  the  night?" 

Bertie  swallowed,  sniffed. 

"Mama  went  in  to  wake  her,  this  morning." 

"Mama — did  she  faint?"  The  girl's  keen,  quick  whisper 
seemed  to  cut  through  Fanny's  weeping  and  the  older  woman 
straightened  up,  blew  her  nose,  and  looked  almost  resentfully 
at  her  niece.     Bertie  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"Well,  she  broke  down,  of  course.  Lucky  Papa  was  there, 
and  he  stayed. — Poor  Mama! — Tina  telephoned  me  and  I  came 
right  over,  for  you  and  Lou.  Lola's  going  up  home  later,  if  they 
need  her.  " 

Vicky  solemnly  and  tenderly  kissed  her  brother,  her  cloud 
of  soft  hair  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  tightened  his  arm  about  the 
slender  young  figure  in  the  thin  gown. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  wonderful,  Vick!"  he  said,  gratefully. 

"I'll  go  right  home!     It's  nine.     I  can  get  the  nine-forty- 

five!". 

"Vicky,  if  you  could — !     Of  course  they're  all  upset,"  Bertie 

said  eagerly.     "I've  got  to  go  to  the  office,  and  stop  and  tell 

Aunt  Lucy.     And  of  course  Tina  isn't  much  good,  she  fainted, 

and  all  that!" 

"  I  declare,  Vicky,  I  look  at  you  in  admiration,"  said  Fanny, 
suddenly  and  harshly.  "Dear  me,  you  people  who  don't  feel 
anything  are  to  be  envied!  Calmly  make  your  plans  and  ar- 
range about  boats,  with  your  lovely  sister — 00 — 00 — 000!" 
Fanny  wept  again. 

"Aunt  Fanny,"  Vicky  said  unsteadily,  "you  know  I  was 
merely  trying  to  get  to  Mama " 

"She  and  Esme  have  always  been  crazy  about  each  other!" 
Bertie  said,  defensively.  And  at  this  championship,  so  in- 
finitely dear  in  this  strange  and  shaking  hour,  Victoria's  eyes  did 
brim,  and  for  the  first  time  the  thought  smote  her  in  all  its  enor- 
mity.    Esme  dead.     Esme! 

She  sank  down  on  the  bed  again,  fumbled  for  the  loosened 
upper  sheet,  and  put  it  to  her  eyes.  Tears  came  in  a  flood; 
first  with  a  pitiful  crinkling  of  all  her  face  muscles,  then  with  a 


354    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

deep  convulsion  of  her  whole  body.  Fanny  cried  afresh,  and 
Bertie  stood,  with  wet  eyes,  uncomfortably  watching  them. 

"Well,  I  thought  this  girl  loved  her  dear,  angelic  big  sister — 
too  good  for  this  world,  and  better  out  of  it  and  all  its  mean, 
wicked  sinful  dirtiness!"  sobbed  Fanny,  violently.  "Just  as  we 
all  would  be,  if  we  could  only  see  it,  safe  with  God — I  thought  she 
cared  for  our  darling — you  loved  her,  didn't  you,  Vicky?  Poor 
Vicky,  without  her  dear  little  confidante  and  chum " 

Vicky  flung  herself  into  the  tumbled  pillows;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  not  live,  with  Esme  dead. 

"  But  it's  not  Esme  we  must  pity "  Fanny  cried,  strangling. 

"No,  indeed,  she's  safe — she's  laughing  at  us — safe  forever, 
darling,  darling  angel  that  she  was!" 

She  was  a  little  annoyed  again  when  Vicky  suddenly  sat  up, 
wiped  her  face,  and  with  a  quiet  nod  and  promise  dismissed 
Bertie.  She  would  get  the  nine-forty-five.  Fanny  sat  on, 
rocking  and  sobbing,  while  the  girl  dressed,  but  Vicky  did  not 
break  down  again.  Quietly  and  almost  absent-mindedly  she 
put  on  her  flowered  hat,  went  downstairs,  drank  her  coffee. 
But  though  the  red-eyed  Maggie  put  eggs  and  French  bread 
before  her,  Vicky  drew  away  from  food,  and  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  from  the  time  when  Bertie  had  entered  her  room,  was 
out  in  the  strangely  glaring,  unfamiliar  sunshine,  going  down 
to  the  boat.  Her  aunt  of  course  accompanied  her,  and  at  the 
ferry  they  found  Lou,  crying  uncontrollably,  Lucy  and  Alice, 
serious,  pale  and  constrained.  The  two  older  women  talked 
together,  and  the  girls  were  free  for  infinite  murmurs  and  whis- 
pers— all  about  Esme.  They  talked  of  her  as  living,  corrected 
themselves;  spoke  of  her  as  dead  and  corrected  themselves  again. 
One  of  their  number — dead.  Not  to  hear  Esme  talking  about 
the  sort  of  man  she  meant  to  marry,  any  more! 

Victoria  began  to  tremble  very  much  when  they  reached  the 
home  gate.  The  front  door,  up  at  the  end  of  the  curved,  dry 
path  between  the  shabby  marguerites  and  the  pampas  grasses, 
stood  wide.  Window  shutters  upstairs  were  closed;  the  house 
was  wrapped  in  a  terrible  silence. 

The  little  party  moved  through  the  quiet,  autumnal  sunshine 
to  the  door.  Victoria,  in  the  lead,  turned  pale  and  put  her  hand 
to  her  heart  as  a  low  moan  broke  through  the  stillness  of  some 
unseen  room.  They  could  hear  a  little  murmur  of  consoling  and 
tearful  voices. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    355 

Grace  Yelland  came  quietly  and  lightly  across  the  hall,  and 
kissed  Vicky  and  Lou,  smiling  seriously  at  the  others,  as  she 
turned  back  with  one  hand  lightly  laid  about  Vicky's  waist. 

"Your  mother  and  father  are  in  the  library,  dear,  so  anxious 
to  see  their  dear  daughters — dearer  than  ever  now,  Victoria!" 

The  library  door  opened;  Tina  stood  on  the  threshold.  At 
the  sight  of  Vicky  her  face  broke  again,  despite  her  stern  effort 
to  control  the  shaking  muscles,  and  the  sisters  ran  together,  and 
wept  in  each  other's  arms. 

"Mama's  wonderful!"  sobbed  Tina.  "But — but  come  in  to 
Papa!     He's  been  asking  for  you!" 

Victoria  was  not  conscious  of  the  general  jumble  of  crying  and 
kissing  that  broke  out  when  May  saw  Lucy  and  Fanny.  She 
went  straight  to  the  stricken  figure  in  the  shiny  old  brown  leather 
armchair,  and  sank  on  her  knees.  With  a  great  groan  and  sob 
Stephen  caught  her  to  his  heart.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
marks  of  tears  on  his  cheeks. 

May  was  brave;  marvellously,  miraculously  brave.  She  sat 
down  in  the  chair  opposite  her  husband,  and  Fanny  and  Lucy 
and  Alice  sat  down,  too.  May  wore  her  old  gray  cashmere 
with  the  purple  plush  strip  down  the  front;  her  stout  soft 
face  was  pale  and  strained,  and  she  patted  Fanny's  hand  in- 
cessantly as  she  quietly  talked,  quietly  wept,  and  quietly  talked 
again. 

"She  was  our  angel,  Fanny.  Always  too  good — always  better 
than  the  other  children!  'Mama,'  she  used  to  say  to  me,  when 
she  wasn't  more  than  a  baby — do  you  remember  this,  Steve? 
She  had  a  doll.     .     .     ." 

"She  never  knew  what  sorrow  and  wickedness  and  suffering 
were,  in  all  her  beautiful,  beautiful  life!"  Fanny  said,  violently 
and  in  tears. 

"No,  that's  what  we  said!"  May  whispered,  with  an  exalted 
look.  "Steve  and  I  kept  everything  away  from  her,  except 
love  and  protection  and  happiness!  Never  did  children  have  a 
home  and  love  and  protection  as  these  children  have  .  .  . 
My  first-born,  Fanny,"  faltered  May,  suddenly  pressing  the 
folded  handkerchief  she  held  against  her  trembling  lips.  "Do 
you  remember,  in  the  old  Powell  Street  house  ...  Mama  was 
with  us  then.     .     .     ." 

"Mama  .  .  .  Mama!"  Victoria  pleaded,  turning,  on  her 
knees,  to  lay  a  restraining  hand  upon  her  mother's  knee. 


356    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"A  beautiful  poem  ended!"  Stephen  said  gravely  and  thickly. 
Fannie  heaved  a  sigh  that  lowered  itself  in  jerky  little  stitches. 
Lucy,  tearless  but  sympathetic,  pressed  her  lips  together,  and 
shook  her  head.  Alice's  eyes  were  sorrowful,  and  she  gripped 
Vicky's  hand  tightly,  but  she  was  thinking  that  this  event 
might  delay  the  marriage  Frank  Babcock  wanted  so  promptly. 
Alice  would  have  been  glad  of  more  time. 

The  girls,  red-eyed  but  self-possessed,  kept  closely  together 
in  the  sad,  strange  days  that  followed.  Their  subdued  con- 
versation was  filled  with  new  endearments,  "dearest,"  "darling"; 
they  looked  slender  and  young  in  fresh,  simple  black.  The 
household  circled  tenderly  about  Stephen,  who  sat,  stricken  and 
old,  in  the  library. 

Lucy  came  frequently,  with  Bobo;  Fanny  came,  crisp  and  pi- 
ous in  her  resignation.  Vicky  and  Lou  coaxed  their  father  into 
country  walks,  listening  to  his  every  word,  eagerly  sympathetic. 
And  often  Bertie  came,  newly  dear,  tenderly  consoling  and  affec- 
tionate. Shaken  laughter  was  heard  in  the  Brewer  household 
again,  when  Bertie  was  there. 

One  day,  some  three  weeks  after  the  funeral,  May  came  to 
the  wide  back  porch,  to  find  Vicky  vigorously  cleaning  crabs. 

"My  precious,"  May  said.  "Uncle  Rob  has  come  home  with 
Papa,  to  spend  the  night.  Papa  was  speaking  about  Bobo  yes- 
terday, dear,  and  I  want  to  speak  to  you  darling  girlies  about  our 
having  Bobo  here!" 

"Does  Uncle  Bob  want  us  to?"  Vicky  said,  surprised. 

"I  am  going  to  speak  to  him  about  it.  The  thing  is,"  said 
May,  "that  I  think  dear  little  Bobo  ought  to  be  here!  He's 
had  that  heavy  cough  ever  since  he  got  whooping-cough  at 
Nelly's,  more  than  a  year  ago,  and  this  is  the  climate  for  him. 
And  I  think  dear  Papa  would  like  it." 

"But  I  thought  Aunt  Lucy — wouldn't  she  miss  the  money?'* 
Tina  asked  interestedly. 

May,  with  a  vision  of  Lucy  supreme  in  power  the  moment 
something  happened  to  Pa,  and  Bobo  inherited  the  house,  nar- 
rowed her  lips  disapprovingly. 

"I  don't  mean  forever,  Tina!  I  mean  just  for  a  few  months, 
dear.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  Vicky  is  the  one  to  ask  Uncle 
Bob,  he  is  so  specially  fond  of  her!" 

Victoria's  face  brightened  with  pleasure,  and  she  presently 
put  the  proposition  to  her  Uncle  Rob  very  prettily.     They  were 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    357 

all  so  fond  of  Bobo,  and  he  really  mustn't  go  into  another  winter 
with  that  cough.     Couldn't  they  have  him? 

Bob,  who  was  fond  of  her,  considered  this  smilingly.  He 
knew,  what  none  of  the  others  knew,  that  his  resignation  from 
Crabtree  and  Company  was  only  a  few  weeks  away.  Things 
were  not  going  well  with  the  firm,  and  Bob  could  not  control 
them.  Stephen  had  opposed  him  steadily,  in  everything  that 
concerned  the  family  firm;  he  had  come  to  believe  it  useless  to 
attempt  a  harmonious  cooperation  with  Stephen.  Bob  did  not 
i  dislike  his  brother-in-law,  but  Steve's  slow,  deliberate,  pompous 
opposition  was  exhausting  and  wasteful.  He  had  agreed 
to  enter  a  Sacramento  wholesale  grocery  house  on  the  first  of 
the  year. 

He  had  been  wondering  just  what  arrangement  to  make  for 
Bobo  when  he  went  to  Sacramento  to  live,  as  he  must,  of  course, 
do.  Bob  liked  Lucy  thoroughly,  she  amused  and  even  some- 
what allured  him;  but  long  before  this  he  had  come  to  an  in- 
dulgent masculine  realization  that  she  was  utterly  impractical. 
Much  better,  he  had  thought,  to  have  no  business  relations  with 
Lucy,  simply  because,  like  most  women,  she  didn't  know  what 
she  was  talking  about.  Her  bright  exculpating  apologies  for 
mismanagement  impressed  Bob^  no  longer.  When  she  and 
Harry  moved  from  the  Mission,  some  years  ago,  Lucy  had 
handed  over  to  Bob  old  bills  for  almost  a  hundred  dollars,  with 
an  explanation  that  made  her  seem  actually  clever  to  be  no 
deeper  in  debt.  After  the  "Abbotsford"  experience  she  had 
again  asked  him,  in  the  most  businesslike  way,  to  "  tempo- 
rarily straighten  her  out."  And  now,  following  the  harmonious 
Larkin  Street  experience,  he  knew  that  she  was  in  fresh  diffi- 
culties. Lucy  was  incurably  a  shopper;  she  bought  a  new  mat- 
tress, garden  tools,  Italian  oil,  quite  without  reference  to  her 
money  in  hand.  If  she  needed  them,  or  fancied  she  did,  she 
always  reasoned  that  it  was  "economy"  to  buy  them.  Economy 
was  a  great  word  with  her.  Most  women  knew  nothing  about 
it,  she  said. 

Only  a  day  or  two  earlier,  she  had  frankly — it  was  always 
"frankly" — explained  to  him  her  need  for  two  hundred  and  ten 
dollars.  This  she  said,  would  represent  his  board,  and  Bobo's, 
in  advance,  for  eighteen  weeks  at  eleven  dollars  a  week.  But  she 
would  call  it  nineteen  weeks,  for  interest.  Bob  hated  to  remind 
her  that  she  had  made  a  similar  arrangement  at  Christmas  time, 


358  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

covering  a  period  of  seven  weeks,  had  accepted  the  seventy-five 
dollars  he  advanced,  and  had  made  no  subsequent  mention  of  it 
whatever,  quietly  accepting  his  weekly  payment  a  few  days 
later,  as  if  no  loan  had  ever  been  made.  She  and  Alice  had  gone 
to  his  dentist,  too;  there  was  a  charge  of  something  more  than 
forty  dollars  there,  and  her  White  House  bill,  presumably  be- 
cause of  Bobo's  necessities,  was  in  his  name. 

So  May's  proposition  came  opportunely,  and  Bob  was  glad 
to  kiss  the  glowing  Vicky,  and  assure  her  that  he  hadn't  for- 
gotten that  summer  night  of  Bobo's  desperate  illness,  and  that 
whatever  she  asked  him  was  already  promised.  And  it  was 
Vicky  that  May  sent  to  get  Bobo,  very  casually,  at  first,  with 
just  a  telescope  basket  of  little  shirts  and  ribbed  stockings.  The 
Brewers  were  genuinely  delighted  to  have  the  engaging,  friendly 
little  six-year-old  back  again  and  Lucy,  with  Alice's  generous 
contributions  added  to  her  budget,  was  perfectly  willing  to  part 
with  him  for  a  time.  Later,  when  May's  doctor  was  quoted 
as  saying  that  the  child  needed  the  warmer  air  of  the  quiet, 
windless  country  town,  Lucy  was  deep  in  a  scheme  for  turning 
her  back  room  into  a  hospital  room  for  any  case  that  Alice  chose 
to  bring  there,  and  received  the  news  indifferently. 

The  news  of  Rob's  resignation  followed,  and  as  Bob  and 
Stephen  seemed  entirely  adjusted  to  the  idea,  and  as  the  head 
of  the  firm  was  merely  a  cackling  old  child  at  this  time,  Fanny 
and  May  could  exchange  congratulations,  unaffected  by  their 
own  entire  ignorance  of  causes  and  reasons  for  the  change. 

"Now,  I  shall  feel  that  things  are  going  right!"  Fanny  said 
thankfully,  on  a  long  breath. 

"Well,"  May  added,  tremulously,  "we  trust  Rob,  of  course. 
But  we  know  Steve.  There  won't  be  any  ridiculous  waste  on 
advertising,  and  that  sort  of  nonsense." 

"Rob  wasn't  spending  his  own  money,"  Fanny  contributed, 
in  her  most  businesslike  way.  "Steve  has  stock  there,  you'll 
have  some,  some  day,  and  of  course  I  have!  It  makes  all  the 
difference  in  the  world!" 

"I  wish  I  could  understand  business  as  you  do,  Fan,"  May 
said  humbly,  her  soft,  fat  face  and  faded  eyes  expressing  anxiety 
and  admiration. 

"Seems  to  me  that  sometimes  I  have  more  of  Pa's  business 
ability  than  either  Bob  or  Harry!"  Fanny  conceded,  tossing  her 
head. 

I 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    359 

To  the  Brewers  the  winter  was  long  and  sad,  and  Christmas 
a  day  when  Esme  seemed  more  present  with  them  than  she  had 
been  even  in  the  flesh.  January  rains  blew  and  slashed  across 
San  Rafael  and  sluiced  and  tumbled  down  California  Street  in 
the  gutters  outside  Grandpa's  warm,  orderly  bedroom.  At 
home,  Vicky  and  Lou  murmured  in  the  hot  dining  room,  roast- 
ing coffee,  yawning  over  "No  Gentlemen"  and  "On  Both  Sides." 
They  filled  the  idle  afternoons  with  walks,  letters,  duets,  with 
idle  dreaming.  Tina  had  tea  nearly  every  day  with  Grace; 
Vernon  loved  the  informal  little  custom,  the  steaming  kettle, 
the  toast,  and  Tina  and  Grace  eager  to  amuse  and  revive  him. 

Bobo  was  a  real  addition  to  the  group;  he  went  to  school  now, 
and  wrote  large  "  B's"  on  walls  and  books.  Stephen  was  fond 
of  him,  and  the  girls  petted  and  spoiled  him;  May  said  he  was 
her  comfort. 

Lucy  and  Alice  came  over  more  than  once,  filled  with  wedding 
plans.  Lucy  was  spending  money  recklessly  on  linens  and  laces, 
"the  one  time  that  one  must"  she  explained.  Alice,  who  showed 
the  same  odd  combination  of  girlish  complacency  in  her  new 
plans,  and  most  un-girlish  hesitancy  about  furthering  them, 
confided  to  Vicky  that  she  did  not  really  know,  herself,  why 
Mama  was  so  wild  to  hasten  this  match. 

"Mothers  all  are!  Crazy  to  have  their  girls  married!" 
Vicky  suggested. 

"But  why,  Vicky?  I  have  my  work,  and  I  am  perfectly 
willing — I  mean  I'd  rather  wait  until  fall,"  Alice  answered 
seriously. 

"Oh,  your  work!"  Vicky  laughed.  "I  don't  suppose  any 
girl  counts  her  work,  when  it  comes  to  getting  married!"  she 
said. 

"Yes,  but  with  Bobo  gone,  and  now  me  gone,  I  don't  know 
how  Mama  will  manage!"  Alice  said,  with  her  conscientious 
little  frown.  "Papa  gives  her  everything,  of  course,  but 
Georgie  can't  do  much!" 

"Oh,  she'll  manage.  And  it'll  be  a  sort  of  relief  to  her  to 
have  you  settled,"  Vicky  said,  briskly  opening  an  oven  door, 
and  eyeing  her  baking  muffins  approvingly.  Alice  looked  un- 
satisfied, opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak  impetuously,  decided 
not  to  speak,  bit  her  lip,  and  scowled. 

"May — it  seems  so  soon!"  she  complained. 

"Oh,  Alice!     Why,  it'll  be  quite  a  long  engagement.     Look 


360    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

at  Bertie!"  Vicky  did  not  sympathize  with  her  cousin's  mis- 
givings; her  own  affair  with  David  was  so  much  more  vague  and 
uncertain,  and  yet  she  was  happy.  If  Alice  wasn't  happy,  it 
must  be  that  she  was  becoming  fractious  and  exacting. 

David  had  written  her  six  or  seven  times  since  his  return  to 
Germany,  friendly,  temperate  letters  that  might  be  quite 
simply  handed  to  Mama,  when  they  had  been  read.  He  de- 
scribed his  work,  his  hospital,  his  boarding-house,  the  weather. 
Only  eyes  as  romantic  as  Vicky's  could  have  found  food  for 
dreams  in  these  documents,  but  to  her  the  arrival  of  each  and 
every  separate  thin  envelope,  with  its  pale-pink  stamps,  was  a 
delight. 

Sometimes  May,  with  the  mournful  air  of  pleasure  that  was 
her  nearest  approach  to  cheerfulness  in  these  days,  was  reading 
the  first  silky,  crinkled  sheet  before  Vicky  had  reached  the  last. 
She  would  sigh,  commenting  upon  Davy's  handicaps;  poor 
Davy.  That  mother  in  Napa,  and  poor  Miss  Clay,  and  every- 
thing! He  would  have  to  practise  in  Napa,  with  his  mother 
and  sister  looking  to  him,  in  the  next  few  years,  to  repay  bor- 
rowed money,  and  house  and  feed  them  all.  May  disliked 
clumsy,  pathetic,  penniless  Davy  Dudley.  She  spoke  of  him 
as  "audacious." 

But  there  was  no  love-making  in  the  letters;  nothing  remotely 
resembling  it.  May  watched  keenly  for  anything  suspicious; 
it  was  never  there.  Vicky  would  be  giddy  and  light-hearted 
for  a  day  or  two  after  one  arrived,  and  would  presently  answer 
it.  Her  mother  always  saw  the  answers;  Vicky  wrote  clever 
and  witty  letters,  and  since  her  actual  childhood  her  mother  had 
enjoyed  them  as  much  as  any  possible  recipient  could. 

"You  ridiculous  girl!"  she  would  comment,  with  an  indulgent, 
sad  smile.  And  sometimes  she  added:  "I  want  to  read  this 
to  Papa,  Vick.  It  will  make  him  laugh — I  mean  your  descrip- 
tion of  Aunt  Fanny! — and  he  has  little  enough  to  laugh  at, 
nowadays." 

This  pleased  rather  than  annoyed  Victoria;  she  loved  admir- 
ation, and  she  had  no  reason  for  secrecy  with  Davy.  Until 
his  letters  assumed  a  lover's  tone,  hers  certainly  could  not. 
She  liked  to  think  over  what  she  had  written  him;  the  spirited 
little  description  of  the  day  her  hat  blew  into  the  bay,  the 
latest  baby  story  of  little  Bobo,  her  views  of  Alice's  impeccable 
doctor. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    361 

But  one  dreaming  day  in  early  March  a  letter  came  for  her 
in  a  slightly  different  vein.  May  and  Lou  were  in  town,  calling 
on  Aunt  Fanny  and  Grandpa;  the  latter  was  far  from  well. 
Tina  was  drying  her  hair,  on  the  upstairs  back  balcony;  Bobo 
was  at  school.  There  was  no  servant  in  the  Brewer  house  now, 
and  Vicky  had  met  the  postman  at  the  gate;  it  was  time,  more 
than  time,  for  an  answer  to  her  last  letter  to  Germany,  and  she 
never  saw  the  gray  uniform  of  the  letter  carrier  without  an  ex- 
pectant thrill. 

Here  it  was;  but  she  could  never  believe  it!  With  a  delicious 
thrill  she  tore  it  open,  sitting  in  a  flood  of  sunlight  on  the  fat, 
low  balustrade  of  the  porch. 

She  read  it;  her  heart  pumped.  She  crumpled  the  thin 
sheets — four  of  them — hastily,  and  looked  about  for  observing 
eyes.  Everything  was  still;  except  far-away  Tina  singing 
"Marguerite"  beyond  closed  doors. 

Her  hand  shaking,  the  light  that  never  was  on  land  and  sea 
shining  in  her  eyes,  Victoria  read  it  again. 

"Calhoun  is  here,  and  he  has  married  his  girl,"  Davy  had 
written. 

He  has  only  his  interne  pay,  but  they  live  wonderfully  on  it.  She  cooks  him 
little  meals,  and  they  go  about  seeing  things.  I  tell  you  it  gave  me  a  kind  of 
heartache,  to  see  them  so  happy,  and  to  think  that  the  only  girl  I  ever  think 
about  would  have  to  wait  years  and  years — even  if  I  ever  got  up  the  nerve  to 
ask  her — which  I  won't.     I'm  thirty — gosh,  it  seems  old!" 

The  next  sentence  was  about  his  work:  but  before  the  letter 
ended  he  said  something  about  affairs  at  home,  in  Napa. 
Mother  had  paid  ofF  her  mortgage  now,  and  Mary  was  working 
with  the  village  millinery.  They  had  thought  Mary  might 
teach,  but  her  illness  had  ended  her  schooling.  Well,  he  often 
thought  of  that  day  there  was  a  forest  fire  in  San  Rafael.  He 
had  to  go  to  the  clinic  now,  kindest  regards  to  all.  He  was 
hers  sincerely. 

Victoria  hid  the  letter  and  made  no  mention  of  it.  Her 
heart  flew  and  floated  like  a  bird;  the  whole  world  was  metamor- 
phosed into  miraculous  brightness.  When  her  mother  came 
home  she  had  made  rhubarb  pies;  two  of  them,  criss-crossed 
and  spilling  candied  juice.  May  was  tired,  sad.  Pa  was  fail- 
ing fast,  and  after  dear  Esme,  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not 
bear.     .     .     . 


362    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

They  all  fell  at  once  to  consoling  her,  a  familiar  process  now. 
May  sat  in  the  kitchen,  bonnet-strings  loose,  and  her  stout, 
discoloured  feet  in  a.  bucket  of  hot  water  that  Tina  had  sug- 
gested. Nothing  like  it  for  weariness  and  colds!  These  first 
untimely  hot  spring  days  were  the  dangerous  times. 

"Any  letters,  Vick?" 

"Gas  bill  for  Papa.  And  one  from  Nelly  saying  that  she 
has  a  little  boy,  and  they've  named  him  Stuart." 

"Yes,  I  know!"  May  said  apathetically.  "Lucy  was  at 
Aunt  Fanny's — she  told  me.  Poor  Nelly  had  convulsions,  she 
was  terribly  ill." 

"Why  should  she  have  convulsions,  Mama?" 

"Because  she  was  sick,  dear!" 

"But,  Mama,  why  convulsions?" 

May  was  pulling  the  tips  of  her  black  suede  mourning  gloves 
straight;  now  she  compressed  her  lips. 

"  People  do,  sometimes,  Vick.  Never  mind  about  that,  now. 
Some  day  when  you're  married  all  this  will  seem  different  to 
you.  Nelly's  well  again,  and  she  has  her  dear  little  baby  in 
her  arms,  and  that's  all  we  need  to  know!  You  made  pies? 
Was  Grace  here?" 

Victoria,  rebuffed,  reflected  with  deep  and  rebellious  satis- 
faction that  she  would  answer  Davy's  letter  without  telling 
Mama  one  word  about  it.  She  would  wait  her  chance  for 
privacy  and  the  hour  of  inspiration. 

It  came  sooner  than  she  expected,  for  only  a  week  later 
Fanny  telephoned  May  in  great  agitation.  Pa  was  sinking; 
May  must  come  at  once.  May,  who  was  just  a  little  vexed 
with  Vicky,  over  a  slight  difference  of  opinion  regarding  a  salad, 
decided  to  take  Tina  with  her  on  this  interesting  and  mournful 
errand.  Lou  was  again  with  the  Pembrokes;  even  the  un- 
suspicious Tina  was  surprised  at  the  good-nature  with  which 
Victoria  received  the  maternal  dictum. 

The  whole  family  had  felt  May's  little  altercation  with  her 
daughter  uncomfortably.  Vicky,  who  was  always  wild  for 
changes  had  read  somewhere  of  a  certain  salad,  and  had  eagerly 
offered  to  try  it,  for  lunch.  But  May  had  decreed  against 
wasting  good  food  on  experiments;  who  ever  heard  of  apples 
and  celery  in  a  salad?  It  sounded  all  wrong  to  her.  Vicky 
had  sulked. 

"Just  now,  when  Mama  has  so  much  to  bear,  I  wish  you 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    363 

could  be  a  little  more  amiable,  Vicky!"  May  had  said,  tremu- 
lously. But  Victoria,  hot  with  the  kitchen-work  of  greasy 
dishes  and  sifting  ashes,  had  answered  sharply: 

"I  know,  Mama.  But  we  all  feel  badly  about  Esme,  you're 
not  the  only  one!  And  I  don't  see  why  we're  not  to  try  a  new 
dish  for  the  rest  of  our  lives  just  because  there's  been  sorrow  in 
the  family!" 

"Vick!"  Tina  had  gasped,  aghast.  And  May  had  turned 
from  the  kitchen  with  her  face  actually  pale  from  the  shock. 
Vicky  had  remained,  slamming  oven  doors  and  crashing  dishes, 
and  only  a  few  minutes  later  the  telephone  had  sounded,  for 
Fanny's  summons,  and  May  and  Tina  had  majestically  de- 
serted her,  in  an  unforgiving  silence. 

They  were  barely  out  of  sight  when  she  flew  to  her  desk. 
Davy's  letter  she  knew  by  heart,  but  she  spread  its  pages 
about  her.  When  she  went  down  to  her  lonely  lunch  of  eggs 
and  the  cold  bread-pudding,  she  carried  these  leaves  to  the 
kitchen,  and  burned  them.  And  that  afternoon  she  walked 
to  the  post-office  and  mailed  a  letter  to  Germany. 

Phrases  from  it  kept  dancing  in  her  excited  brain  as  she 
went  homeward. 

"Why  should  'the  only  girl  you  ever  think  about'  have  to 
wait  years  and  years?"  she  had  written.  "Perhaps  she  would 
rather  come  on  to  you,  and  try  managing  on  an  interne's  pay, 
than  that.  How  shall  I  say  it  to  you,  Davy?  A  young  lady 
is  supposed  to  be  silent,  isn't  she?  She  is  never  supposed  to 
say  that  she  loves  a  man,  misses  him — terribly.  So  I  will  only 
tell  you  that  Bertie's  wedding  cost  my  father  more  than  six 
hundred  dollars.     Is  the  fare  to  Germany  as  much  as  that? 

"I  shouldn't  write  this,  I  know.  But  I  have  never  liked 
any  other  man,  this  way.  Will  you  answer  me  honestly,  and 
tell  whether  there  was  not  something  you  wanted  to  say  to  me, 
that  day  of  the  fire?  You  see  I  don't  know — I  have  no  idea 
how  you  feel." 

The  last  phrase  had  been  heavily  underscored.  Remember- 
ing it,  in  the  quiet  autumn  afternoon,  Vick  had  a  moment  of 
panic.  Suppose  Davy  had  meant  some  other  girl  by  the  al- 
lusion to  "the  only  girl  I  ever  think  about"?  The  letter  was 
ashes  now;  she  could  not  re-read  it. 

But  she  reassured  herself;  it  must  have  been  what  she  hoped. 
She  had  read  it  a  hundred  times  without  suspicion. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

APRIL  was  long  and  wet;  Harry  had  coughed  all  winter, 
now  he  began  to  cough  again,  convulsively  and  ex- 
L  haustingly.  Lucy  kept  him  at  home  for  two  or  three 
days,  but  after  that  he  went  back  again  to  the  office  and 
struggled  wearily  with  the  usual  details  of  bills  and  bookkeeping. 
His  feet  were  always  icy,  his  head  always  throbbing  with  pain 
and  heat,  and  his  throat  sore.  Sometimes  he  could  think, 
all  afternoon  long,  of  nothing  but  the  joy  of  getting  home,  of 
staggering  to  bed  with  every  bone  aching  and  every  fibre 
shuddering  with  cold,  of  feeling  the  blankets  over  him,  and  the 
soft  mattress  beneath,  and  the  hot-water  bottle  at  his  feet. 

Three  days  at  home,  ten  days  at  the  office.  It  was  on  the 
tenth  day,  a  Tuesday,  that  Harry  knew  that  he  could  not 
stick  it  out.  If  it  had  been  even  Friday,  with  the  prospect  of 
the  following  half-day,  he  might  have  struggled  on.  But 
Tuesday — it  was  practically  the  beginning  of  the  week!  They 
were  stock-taking,  too,  but  he  could  bear  no  more.  Every 
breath  was  an  agony,  his  bones  were  racked  and  his  legs  were 
as  weak  as  a  baby's.  He  went  to  Miss  Baum,  his  voice  a  mere 
wheezing  shadow. 

"I  should  think  you  would  have  to  go  home!',  she  said,  good- 
naturedly.  Harry,  leaning  on  her  desk,  doubled  up  with  hot, 
dry  suffocation,  managed  a  smile. 

"So  sorry,  after  last  week!"  he  whispered.  The  trip  home, 
the  cold  wet  street,  the  racketing  car,  the  stumbling  steps  to 
his  own  doorway,  were  so  many  agonies.  He  tumbled  blindly 
to  bed;  Lucy  was  out,  Alice  on  a  case.  Bob  had  been  in  Sac- 
ramento for  several  months. 

Harry  collapsed;  great  shudders  shook  him  as  the  warmth 
of  blankets  and  hot-water  bottle  began  to  penetrate  deliciously 
to  his  aching  bones. 

"Whoo!"  he  kept  whistling  gratefully,  "this  is  good.  My 
Lordy!    Whoo!" 

364 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    365 

When  Lucy  came  in  he  was  in  an  uneasy  sleep;  he  wakened, 
began  a  crowing,  hoarse  explanation,  coughed.  He  was  glad 
to  subside  again,  glad  to  be  declared  really  ill. 

The  result  of  the  five  days'  weakness  and  aching  and  fever 
was  not  fatal;  but  it  was  serious  in  other  ways.  By  the  time 
Harry,  shaken  and  white,  was  moved  out  to  the  kitchen,  Finch 
and  Houston  had  filled  his  place  in  the  office.  Alice's  wedding 
was  now  but  a  few  weeks  ahead;  Bob  was  in  Sacramento, 
Georgie  ecstatic  over  the  prospect  of  a  good  job,  in  San  Jose. 
He  would  be  employed  in  a  little  hardware  shop,  but  would 
have  entire  charge  of  the  bicycle-mending  end  of  the  business. 

Harry  sat  listening,  sometimes  worried,  sometimes  only 
dreaming.  All  his  dreams  were  of  heat;  the  old  burning  heat 
of  the  San  Rafael  days,  heat  on  deep  grass,  sunshine  burning 
down  upon  dry  piers  above  the  hot  flicker  of  water.  He  felt 
that  he  had  never  been  really  warm. 

Resolutely,  stubbornly,  Lucy  pushed  on  toward  the  wedding. 
She  would  not  listen  to  Alice's  mild  protests.  Certainly  not! 
Nothing  should  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  her  happy  time; 
every  girl  had  a  right  to  her  wedding. 

Alice  had  always  been  obedient,  and  with  all  her  old  simple 

earnestness   and   docility  she  obeyed   now.     Frank  was  sure; 

Mama  was  sure;  and  of  course  she  wanted  to  be  married;  she 

did  not  want  to  be  an  old  maid!     When  Frank  was  away  from 

I  her,  through  her  busy  days,  whether  she  was  at  home  with 

I  Mama  or  on  a  case,  she  felt  quite  happy  about  it.     But  when 

I  they  were  together,  and  he  quite  naturally  and  quietly  kissed 

her,  and  when  he  talked  of  their  future,  she  did  not  feel  so  sure. 

"Mama,  it  worries  me,  with  Papa  not  working — you'll  have 
all  these  bills!" 

"My  dear,  we  have  bought  very  economically.  It  never 
pays  to  get  poor  stuff!  And  marrying  off  my  last  girl  is  some- 
thing I  shall  never  have  to  do  again!" 

She  had  evidently  no  misgivings;  Alice  tried  to  have  none. 
Her  grandfather,  in  one  of  his  lucid  moments,  sent  her  a  check 
for  one  hundred  dollars;  Alice  eagerly  applied  it  to  the  White 
House  bill,  although  Lucy  said  it  might  be  wiser  to  lay  in  some 
silver;  silver  was  so  cheap  now.  George  sent  her  ten  dollars; 
she  was  to  get  herself  something  nice.  He  was  boarding  with 
his  employer,  Fred  Burgess,  and  it  was  dandy.  San  Jose  was 
dandy.     Everything  was  dandy. 


366    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

The  unexpected  money,  the  general  flutter,  the  wonderful 
new  gowns  and  hats,  were  all  exciting  and  delightful.  Alice 
wore  her  wedding  hat  for  a  week  or  two,  so  that  it  would  not 
look  "bridey,"  and  Vicky  thrilled  at  the  mere  sight  of  the 
fated  pink  roses  and  blue  ribbons.  Actually  to  have  a  wedding 
hat! 

A  day  or  two  before  the  wedding  Lucy  spoke  to  her  of  finan- 
cial difficulties. 

"I  calculated,  you  see,  upon  your  father.  But  his  staying 
at  home  all  these  weeks  has  thrown  me  out  completely.  I 
counted  on  him — h'm.  Now  I  find  myself  exactly  correct,  ex- 
cept that  I  have  not  gotten  anything  from  him.  I  can  get  it, 
of  course!     1  know  Frank  would  be  only  too  glad " 

"Oh,  Mama,  not  Frank!"     Alice  was  scarlet. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  But  don't  worry,  dear,  we're  all 
right- " 

Alice,  sick  with  anxiety,  had  instant  recourse  to  prayer. 
And  that  afternoon  came  a  check  from  Uncle  Bob,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars.  Radiantly,  she  took  it  to  her  mother,  every- 
thing was  all  right  now. 

And  on  the  twentieth  of  April,  Vicky  and  Tina  and  Lou,  in 
their  black,  came  over  to  the  little  Larkin  Street  house,  and 
witnessed  the  marriage  of  Doctor  Frank  Lawrence  Babcock 
and  Alice  Madeleine  Crabtree.  Alice  was  exquisite  in  her 
solemnity  and  beauty;  she  wore  a  tailor-made  dark  green  serge 
line,d  with  scarlet;  the  belled  skirt,  edged  with  brush  braid, 
swept  the  shabby  carpet  on  all  sides.  The  afternoon  was  bright 
and  still.     Drawn  shades  shut  out  the  hot,  bright  spring  day. 

Dr.  Babcock  kissed  her,  the  girls  and  her  mother  trooped 
forward  gaily;  she  was  kissed,  confused,  pulled  this  way  and 
that.  Lucy  was  eager  with  sandwiches,  salad,  coffee;  Fanny 
made  them  all  laugh.  May  had  not  come,  explaining  satis- 
factorily and  mournfully  that  she  "couldn't." 

Alice  ran  to  the  side  of  her  father's  chair;  Harry  was  still  an 
invalid.  She  dropped  to  her  knees,  her  young  cheek,  against 
his,  was  wet. 

"Darling,  you  don't  lose  your  little  girl!  I'll  be  right  in  the 
Mission;  I'll  be  here  every  day!" 

He  rested  his  cool,  bloodless  face  against  hers  wearily;  he 
could  not  speak.  Frank  Babcock,  showing  his  shining  teeth 
in  incessant  smiles  through  his  black  beard,  was  talking  to  a 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    367 

group  of  women,  was  anxious  to  get  away.  They  went  blindly, 
through  a  group  of  interested  neighbours'  children,  to  a  car- 
riage; they  were  married. 

Now  she  should  begin  to  feel  confident  and  happy,  Alice 
thought.  Now  she  would  begin  to  love  him.  She  was  terri- 
fied to  feel  that  she  hated  him  instead;  his  scented  black 
moustache,  his  shining  teeth.  His  full,  moderated  voice,  ex- 
plaining things  to  her,  in  the  train,  filled  her  with  fright.  She 
wanted  to  get  away! 

He  was  giving  her  his  proof  for  the  pronunciation  of  the 
word  "advertisement,"  as  opposed  to  her  mother's  chance 
pronunciation  of  the  word. 

He  had  asked  her,  "Shall  I  tell  you  some  of  your  husband's 
terrible  faults?  Well,  he  likes  to  be  on  time.  He  doesn't 
like  to  waste  his  own  or  other  people's  precious  minutes!" 

Alice  received  this  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"And  then  he  likes  the  truth,"  continued  Frank,  smiling 
whimsically.  "Truth — is  there  m  anything  more  beautiful! 
Unless  a  thing  is  really  awful,  or  killing,  or  tremendous,  I  do 
not  think  you  will  find  him  calling  it  so!" 

She  recognized  three  of  her  favourite  words,  legal  tender, 
indeed,  among  all  the  girls  she  knew. 

"Why,  I  hate  him!"  she  thought,  her  heart  in  a  whirl.  "I 
loathe  him.  What  am  I  doing,  going  down  to  Del  Monte  with 
him!" 

When  they  came  back  five  days  later  Frank  was  all  her  world. 
His  tenderness,  his  wisdom,  his  devotion  to  her  were  her  only 
topic.  She  took  possession  of  his  furnished  house  in  the  Mission 
with  a  rapturous  dedication  of  herself  to  its  needs.  And  when 
she  and  Frank  went  over  for  a  Sunday  dinner  with  Mama  and 
Papa,  Alice  heard  everything  they  said  with  nervous  smiles, 
and  watched  Frank's  face  anxiously,  to  see  how  he  received  it. 
Frank's  domestic  comfort  deeply  concerned  her;  she  must  learn 
how  to  market,  she  must  find  out  exactly  how  Frank  liked  his 
bureau  kept.  She  puttered  about  contentedly  after  her 
mother,  all  that  long  Sunday;  wasn't  it  funny  how  Frank 
liked  apple  cake?  Wasn't  it  funny  that  he  had  said  that  if 
she  read  her  book  in  the  sunlight  her  head  would  ache,  and  it 
did  ache! 

To  her  old  hospital  associates,  and  to  the  Brewer  girls,  she 


368    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

felt  a  tremendous  superiority.  She  wished  they  were  all  en- 
gaged to  be  married,  she  told  them  merrily,  it  was  all  so  wonder- 
ful. But  they  would  have  to  be  married  to  her  Frank  to  realize 
how  lucky  she  was,  and  she  didn't  know  how  it  could  be  man- 
aged! And  to  Lucy  she  said  pityingly  afterward  that  un- 
married girls  seemed  awful  fools,  when  one  was  married. 

"He  has  such  judgment,  Mama,"  she  would  tell  Lucy.  "He 
sees  into  a  thing  so  quickly!  I  often  think  he  ought  to  be  in 
politics — you  know  how  he  was  talking  about  the  business 
depression,  last  night;  why,  there'd  not  be  any  bank  failures 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  if  everybody  saw  it  as  he  does!  And  you 
must  admit  that  he  was  sweet  with  Aunt  Fanny — his  dinner 
late,  and  all!  But  he's  always  like  that — wise,  you  know.  And 
I  do  think  he's  nice  with  Papa;  Frank  works  so  hard,  you  know, 
and  of  course  Papa  has  nothing  to  do!" 

She  and  Frank  had  happy  Sundays  at  the  Midwinter  Fair; 
the  great  stretches  of  bright  cheap  buildings  were  full  of  fas- 
cination for  them.  They  sauntered  past  Irish  lace-makers 
and  Turkish  bazaars,  smiled  at  the  sad  little  Hawaiian  babies, 
gasped  on  the  scenic  railway,  and  ate  ravenously  in  the  Vien- 
nese restaurant.  Certain  of  the  concessions  seemed  peculiarly 
their  own  by  right  of  discovery,  and  they  loved  to  meet  less 
sophisticated  visitors  and  tell  them  about  the  "Santa  Barbara 
Amphibia"  and  the  "Mirror  Maze." 

They  sat  over  ice-cream,  discussing  the  miracle  of  their 
first  meeting  in  the  Mission,  of  every  step  that  had  brought 
them  together.  They  were  destined  for  each  other,  from  the 
beginning  of  time,  of  course.  Even  Josepha — Frank's  first 
wife,  did  not  much  disturb  Alice's  dream.  She  had  been  a 
wonderful  woman,  a  wonderful  manager.  But  she  was  ten 
years  dead,  Alice  had  been  but  four  years  old  when  Frank  was 
first  married,  and  Frank's  daughter,  Josie,  was  now  eighteen. 
Josie  lived  in  Stockton  with  her  mother's  sister  and  had 
showed  an  unfortunately  cold  and  unpleasant  side  to  her 
father. 

"Her  aunts  have  spoiled  her,"  Frank  said,  "they  have  made 
her  impossible  to  control!  However,  some  day  we'll  have  her 
down  for  a  visit,  and  perhaps  things  will  go  more  smoothly. 
She  had  a  quarrelsome  tendency.     .     .     ." 

"Frank,  as  if  any  one  could  quarrel  with  you/" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,  my  dear!     Perhaps  you  put  too  generous 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    369 

an  estimate  upon  a  mere  human  man.  But  I  think,"  Frank 
said,  dropping  his  bantering  tone,  "I  think  that  I  am  always 
just.  I  think  out — it's  natural  to  me  to  think  out,  to  weigh  a 
situation  thoroughly.     After  that,  I  don't  think  I  vacillate !" 

The  house  in  the  Mission  was  one  of  a  row:  dark  gray  houses 
with  bay-windows,  flights  of  steps,  balustraded  porches  over 
the  front  door.  Everything  inside  was  old,  yet  unworn;  the 
dark-green  carpets  like  iron,  the  horsehair  chairs  shining  neatly 
in  the  dim  parlour.  Shutters  let  in  a  glimmer  of  light;  all  three 
bedrooms  were  in  order,  limp  white  spreads  on  wide,  hard  beds. 
Alice  looked  at  it  all  appreciatively;  the  large  china  plates  with 
a  brown  border  in  flowers,  the  blankly  clean  bathroom  at  the  end 
of  the  long  upper  hall.  Smells  were  everywhere;  damp,  clean 
smells  of  carbolic  and  yellow  soap,  and  airless  smells  of  horse- 
hair and  carpets  and  stale  dust. 

Anna  was  the  servant;  Anna  did  everything.  She  even  dusted 
the  two  big  parlours,  where  Frank  saw  his  patients,  in  the  way  he 
liked.  The  front  room  upstairs  was  Alice's  sitting  room;  she 
could  look  out  at  Mission  Street,  near  Twelfth;  people  would  be 
banging  in  and  out  of  Young's  Drug  Store,  at  the  corner,  and  the 
queer  man  opposite  would  have  all  his  flags  out  on  a  rope.  The 
warm  summer  winds  blew  yellow  chafF  and  dirty  papers  against 
the  curbs. 

A  few  weeks  after  Alice's  wedding  Bob  came  down  from  Sac- 
ramento, to  hear  from  Lucy  with  her  usual  bright  decisiveness 
that  she  intended  to  give  up  the  Larkin  Street  cottage. 

"Oh,  certainly!"  Lucy  said  capably,  "I've  realized  for  some 
time  that  it  was  too  big  for  Harry  and  me.  Now  that  both 
Alice  and  Georgie  have  gone,  we  must  make  some  other  ar- 
rangement. Do  you  think  I  could  have  you  paying  rent  here, 
for  nothing?  No,  indeed.  I'  have  to  think  of  these  things, 
Bob,  for  Harry" —  she  smiled  at  him — "is  a  perfect  infant! 
One  of  us  has  to  have  a  head,  and  thank  goodness  I  have  had  a 
hard  schooling  in  money  matters!" 

Bob  was  pleased.  His  little  boy  was  well  and  strong,  and 
May  pathetically  determined  to  keep  him.  Bob  himself  was 
settled.     He  asked  what  Lucy  proposed  to  do. 

Lucy  answered  confidently  that  she  was  planning  several 
things,  but  that  Fanny  needed  her  just  at  the  moment;  Fanny 
had  a  touch  of  Lucy's  own  old  enemy  rheumatism,  and  had 


370    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

hinted  that  she  would  be  glad  of  an  extra  pair  of  hands  about  the 
house.     Harry  was  to  go  off  "for  a  little  vacation." 

"Where  to?"  Bob  asked  his  brother.  Lucy  answered  briskly 
that  she  did  not  quite  know;  but  that  Harry  must  get  away. 
Against  his  own  knowledge  of  her  Bob  found  himself  oddly 
convinced  that  this  was  a  practical  solution  of  their  problem; 
Lucy,  warmed  by  his  tacit  approval,  laid  a  sheaf  of  bills  in  his 
hand. 

"By  some  miracle,"  she  said,  "I've  been  able  to  keep  these 
down — a  wedding,  imagine! — and  you'll  find  that  they  don't 
total  three  hundred  dollars.  Frankly,  I  want  your  advice  about 
them,  Bob.  I  don't  know  myself  how  I  did  it,  with  Harry's 
illness,  and  all.  Everyone  supposes  that  even  the  simplest 
wedding  costs  hundreds.  But,  you  see — ice-cream,  salads — we 
didn't  have  any  caterer;  everyone  does;  I  didn't!  I  wish  May 
could  see  them,  after  the  way  money  was  thrown  about  for  Ber- 
tie's wedding — and  he  a  boy,  too.  But  you  know  me,  Bob.  I 
can't  be  comfortable  until  these  are  paid.  I'm  made  that  way. 
Debt — ugh!     I  can't  abide  it." 

"Bob,  that  isn't  your  business,"  Harry  suggested,  smiling 
from  his  chair. 

"Harry  wouldn't  worry  if  the  sheriff  was  at  the  door,"  Lucy 
said.     "Unfortunately,  I'm  made  differently!" 

Bob  looked  thoughtful.  But  in  the  end  he  was  able  to  offer  a 
solution  that  immensely  pleased  the  business-like  Lucy.  He 
would  pay  these  bills  now,  and  in  three  months,  that  is,  on 
September  first,  he  would  send  her  one  hundred  dollars  more, 
paying  the  same  sum  each  quarter  for  four  following  quarters. 
In  return,  Harry  signed  an  agreement  that  he  would  deed  to  him 
the  Santa  Clara  property  he  would  inherit  from  his  father. 

This  prospect  delighted  Lucy.  She  liked  the  thought  of  tell- 
ing Fanny  that  their  affairs  were  in  satisfactory  shape. 

Harry  mildly  acquiesced.  He  felt  weak  and  confused  and 
weary;  he  went  to  Fanny's  house  and  sat  in  the  back  parlour, 
sometimes  looking  at  the  Dore  Dante,  sometimes  going  through 
the  stereoscope  pictures.  Alice  seemed  as  far  away  as  if  she  had 
gone  to  China;  poor  Nelly,  busy  with  four  babies,  never  wrote 
now. 

When  the  Larkin  Street  house  was  closed  and  empty,  Lucy 
joined  him,  full  of  energy  and  satisfaction.  She  made  herself 
extremely  useful  in  his  sister's  house;  the  old  man  was  a  feeble, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    371 

whimpering  baby  now,  who  lay  for  hours  staring  smilingly  at 
nothing,  or  mumbled  boiled  rice  with  sloppy  noises.  He  rarely 
recognized  any  one,  but  would  invariably  weep  with  emotion 
when  some  glimmer  of  remembrance  was  aroused  by  the  sight 
of  a  familiar  face. 

Fanny,  indignant  and  incredulous  as  the  maddening  stiffness 
in  her  knees  and  fingers  remained,  questioned  her  brother 
briskly. 

"Well,  Harry!  Are  you  going  off  to  see  Nelly — is  that  the 
plan?  How  about  Georgie — wouldn't  San  Jose  be  a  splendid 
place  to  get  rid  of  that  cough  ?  No  use  staying  here,  you  know — 
worst  place  in  the  world  for  you!    These  fogs " 

Harry  knew  he  was  in  the  way,  but  he  did  not  quite  know 
where  to  go.  He  became  extremely  annoying  to  Lucy,  in  his 
very  meekness  and  quiet.  Pulling  his  chair  out  at  the  table, 
helping  himself  to  more  tomato  salad,  coughing  in  the  still 
watches  of  the  night;  he  troubled  and  exasperated  her.  Fanny 
fretted  about  expenses;  here  was  a  household  of  six  people — 
everything  going  out,  nothing  coming  in.  Statements  from  the 
firm  were  extremely  unsatisfactory,  business  was  bad — poof! 
!  Fanny  didn't  believe  'em.  There  wasn't  any  talk  of  that  in 
J  Pa's  day. 

After  a  few  half-hearted  efforts  to  find  work  in  one  of  the 
I  Polk  Street  agencies,  Harry  announced  one  morning  that  he 
i  thought  he  would  go  south. 

"Down  San  Mateo  way,  or  in  Los  Gatos,  I'll  find  work," 
he  said.  "Maybe  I'll  go  up  to  Nelly.  There's  quite  a  lot 
I  could  do,  with  Hildegarde  and  Brother.  And  they  felt  real 
bad  when  I  came  away." 

Lucy  abetted  him  enthusiastically;  she  borrowed  the  money 
for  his  fare  from  Fanny;  "I  shall  have  my  check  in  a  few  weeks 
now,"  she  said  confidently.  Harry,  with  twenty  dollars,  went 
away  on  an  August  morning. 

The  day  was  windless,  smothered  in  a  soft,  milky  fog.  There 
was  a  yellow  sun  burning  behind  the  thick,  still  folds;  the  ferry 
boats  were  moving  slowly,  with  constant  honking  of  horns  and 
ringing  of  bells.  Harry  had  determined  to  begin  in  Oakland, 
and  work  his  way  on  through  Alameda,  Haywards — somewhere 
there  must  be  a  place  for  him.  Thin,  coughing,  still  a  little  weak 
and  bewildered,  he  disappeared  into  the  all-enveloping,  silent 
mists. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  WAS  all  wrong,  May  said.  It  was  just  the  way  modern 
girls  did  things.  No  nice  girl's  engagement  had  ever  been 
announced  in  this  reckless,  haphazard  fashion.  She  did 
not  like  it,  and  Papa  did  not  like  it.  Mr.  Palmer  might  be  a  very 
fine  fellow,  undoubtedly  he  was,  that  was  not  the  point.  What 
would  people  think  of  a  girl  who  jumped  headlong  into  an  en- 
gagement that  way? 

Lou,  breathless,  and  perhaps  a  little  frightened  at  her  own 
daring,  listened  in  impudent  silence. 

The  papers  had  simply  had  the  statement,  one  morning.  Miss 
Louisianna  Brewer,  youngest  daughter  of  the  well-known  San 
Rafael  family,  was  receiving  the  good  wishes  of  her  friends  upon 
her  engagement  to  Mr.  Howard  Palmer,  of  Philadelphia.  No 
date  had  been  set  for  the  wedding. 

Lou  had  informed  her  family — "condescended  to  inform 
them,"  May  said — the  night  before. 

"Mama  and  Papa,"  she  had  begun,  with  a  somewhat  artificial 
coolness.  "I  want  you  to  know  that  Howard  and  I  are  going  to 
be  married.     We  settled  the  whole  thing  this  afternoon!" 

Vicky's  heart  had  leaped  with  joy.  This  was  definite,  at 
least.  She  sent  a  look  of  admiration  and  fealty  to  her  little  sis- 
ter.    Poor  May  had  not  known  quite  what  to  do. 

The  man,  handsome,  assured,  thirty  years  old,  conspicuously 
well  dressed,  had  come  over  to  San  Rafael  a  week  or  two  be- 
fore and  had  appeared,  with  a  certain  negligent  good-nature, 
at  the  Brewer  gate.  No,  he  wouldn't  come  in,  thanks  awfully, 
he  had  his  trap  here,  wanted  Miss  Louisianna,  for  a  drive. 

Lou  had  asked  nobody,  even  though  it  was  Sunday,  and 
Papa  was  at  home.  She  had  tripped  out  to  the  shining,  high 
cart,  climbed  in,  and  plunged  into  laughing  badinage  even  before 
the  amazed  family  lost  sight  of  her.  She  took  her  admirer 
calmly,  and  gave  her  confidence  to  no  one.  Frequently,  she 
went  to  Lily  Duvalette  for  the  night,  in  Lily's  badly  managed 

372 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  373 

noisy  cottage  at  the  hotel,  or  in  town.  Two  weeks  of  this  ended 
with  the  amazing  fact  of  the  announced  engagement. 

At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  May  felt  a  secret  elation  and  satis- 
faction. No  matter  how  it  had  been  managed,  it  was  a  pleasing 
thought.  One  of  her  dear  girls  married  to  a  rich  man  and  living 
in  the  east!  She  treated  Lou  with  a  certain  respect;  Vicky  and 
Tina  quite  openly  lionized  the  amazing  junior  who  had  taken 
matters  into  her  own  hands  so  magnificently. 

Lou  was  feverishly  absorbed  in  her  affair;  incessantly  away 
with  Howard,  giving  scant  heed  to  their  excitement  and  flutter. 
She  admitted  that  she  was  fortunate:  money?  Oh,  he  was  im- 
mensely rich,  of  course.  She  told  her  father  briefly  and  posi- 
tively that  she  did  not  propose  to  have  any  such  wedding  as 
Bertie's;  Howard  would  much  rather  slip  off  some  day  and  be 
married,  and  she  didn't  mind. 

"But  it's  a  girl's  pretty,  happy  time,  dear!"  May  suggested 
tenderly. 

"Mama,"  Lou  answered,  briskly  and  tensely,  "any  girl  in 
my  position  marrying  a  man  as  important  as  Howard  can  very 
well  afford  to  give  in  about  the  details!" 

Fanny  wrote  a  merry,  teasing  letter;  Lou  must  run  in  to 
lunch,  or  set  a  night  upon  which  she  could  bring  this  Fairy  Prince 
to  meet  his  old  cranky,  crippled  relative.  She  just  couldn't 
believe  that  little  Lou  was  really  going  to  outdistance  all  the 
girls.     ... 

Lou  tossed  the  letter  aside,  scowling. 

"I  see  myself  taking  Howard  there,  with  Aunt  Lucy  and  Carra 
and  Grandpa." 

"But  my  darling,"  May  said,  aghast,  "Howard  must  meet 
all  your  own  people!" 

"My  own  people!  With  Grandpa  in  bed  like  a  baby,  and 
Aunt  Fanny  talking  about  the  year  One!  I'm  not  going  to  live 
here,  Mama,  I  don't  expect  ever  to  come  back,  except  for 
visits!" 

This  attitude  was  intensely  distressing  to  May,  and  even  dis- 
turbing to  Vicky  and  Tina.  The  former  felt  old  convictions 
dying  away;  a  girl's  wedding  wasn't  always  roses  and  tears  and 
smiles,  then  ?     Lou  was  disquietingly  business-like  and  practical. 

Exactly  eight  days  after  the  announcement,  and  before  the 
family  were  fairly  used  to  the  new  idea  and  the  new  glory,  Lou 


374    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

came  flying  in,  from  town,  one  afternoon,  and  snatched  the 
telephone  receiver.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  she  neither  greeted 
her  mother  nor  took  off  her  hat.  They  heard  her  call  Lily 
Duvalette.  Evidently  Lily  was  not  satisfactory,  but  Frank 
Pembroke  was  there,  and  Lou  imperatively  demanded  that 
Frank  come  to  see  her  at  once. 

Her  mother  questioned  her,  simple  curiosity  getting  the  better 
of  offended  majesty,  but  Lou  seemed  not  to  hear  her,  and  with 
a  muttered  excuse  ran  upstairs;  they  heard  her  door  bang. 

Frank  Pembroke,  with  a  serious  face,  came  in  the  gate  a  few 
minutes  later:  May,  determined  not  to  be  brushed  aside  again, 
met  him  at  the  door,  and  let  him  into  the  parlour,  where  Vicky 
and  Tina  were  accidentally  sitting. 

"I  guess  Lou  told  you  about  Howard,  Mrs.  Brewer,"  said 
Frank,  who  looked  pale  and  worried.  "I  only  knew  myself, 
to-day.  I  was  telling  Lily.  He — I  guess  Lou  went  over  to  meet 
him  for  lunch,  but  he's  gone  east " 

There  was  a  dry,  dull  taste  in  Vicky's  mouth.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  had  expected  this,  all  along. 

"I  met  him  at  the  club,  last  winter,"  said  Frank.  "He 
seemed — he  seemed  a  nice  enough  fellow,  didn't  he,  Vick? 
Didn't  you  think  so,  Vick?  But — but  he's  married,  I  guess.  I 
guess  the  Philadelphia  papers  saw  the  announcement " 

May's  fat  soft  face  was  deathly  pale  in  the  autumn  heat. 
Vicky  saw  the  beads  on  her  upper  lip.  She  swallowed  con- 
vulsively. 

"Well,  he'll  go  to  jail  for  this,  Frank!"  she  said  quietly, 
breathing  hard. 

"I  hope  he  will,  Mrs.  Brewer!"  Frank  said,  fervently.  "I — 
I  feel  something  terrible!"  he  added,  forlornly.  Mrs.  Brewer 
did  not  seem  to  hear  him;  she  was  shaking  her  head,  framing 
sentences  with  a  dry  mouth. 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,  Frank!"  Victoria  said,  her  whole  being 
still  trembling  under  the  blow. 

"My  poor  little  girl!"  May  whispered.  "The  villain.  The 
villain.  I  suppose  he  can't  be  hanged  for  it — he  ought  to  be. 
He  ought  to  be  hanged!" 

"He  ought  to  be  tarred  and  feathered!"  panted  Victoria, 
fighting  tears. 

"He  will  be,"  May  said  grimly.  "Your  father  will  make 
him  pay  very  dearly  for  every  instant  of  unhappiness  he  has 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  375 

caused  Lou.  Yes,  sir!"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself,  in  a  tense  un- 
dertone, "Yes,  sir,  we'll  see!  We  will  see,  Mr.  Howard  Palmer," 
May  went  on,  breathlessly  and  in  a  dry  whisper,  "exactly  how 
well  your  wife  likes  the  idea  of  having  you  in  jail!  People  shall 
know  of  this " 

"There  won't  be  a  newspaper  in  the  country  that  won't  mark 
him  for  what  he  is!"   Victoria  cried  passionately. 

"Oh,  he'll  have  to  live  somewhere  else!"  exclaimed  Tina. 

"He'll  have  to  live  his  life  out  in  some  obscure,  foreign  coun- 
try," May  said,  with  a  sort  of  raging,  yet  quiet,  triumph.  But 
after  awhile  her  mood  changed;  the  high-flown,  indignant 
phrases  failed  her.  "  He's  broken  her  heart !"  she  sobbed.  Tina 
and  Vicky  cried  too;  Frank  had  gone  sorrowfully  and  shamedly 
away. 

"  But,  oh,  Vick  and  Tina,"  breathed  May,  embracing  them  as 
they  knelt  tearfully  before  her,  "this  is  just  what  Mama  and 
Papa  try  to  spare  you !  We  fuss,  we  warn,  we  advise,  we  chap- 
eron— only  to  save  you  from  this!  Oh,  girls,  you  see  it  now, 
don't  you — you  see  why  Mama  worries  and  watches,  now,  don't 
you?    We  are  old-fashioned,  we  are  laughed  at " 

"No,  you're  not!"     Tina  interrupted  loyally. 

" — and  it  seems  hard  and  dull  and  fussy,  I  know,"  May  went 
on,  breathing  a  deep  sigh,  and  wiping  her  eyes,  "  but  it  is  because 
we  know  how  wicked  the  world  is,  how  easy  it  is  for  a  bad,  un- 
scrupulous man  to  wreck  a  girl's  life!" 

"Mama,  is  Lou's  life  wrecked?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know  anything!"  May  said,  weep- 
ing again.  "When  I  think  of  it — the  newspapers — and  she  did 
love  him,  poor  misguided  child!  And  I'll  have  to  tell  your 
father " 

Victoria  went  upstairs  several  hours  later,  ventured  a  tenth 
attempt;  knocked  on  Lou's  door. 

"It's  open!"  Lou's  voice  said  wearily,  dully. 

She  was  lying  on  her  bed,  in  the  warm  autumn  night  that  was 
still  lighted  with  a  reminiscent  glow  of  sunset.  She  did  not 
move  as  Vicky  came  over  to  kneel  beside  her  and  covered  her 
languid  hand  with  a  warm  hand.  They  stayed  so  for  a  long 
time. 

"  Papa  saw  it  in  the  evening  paper,  just  a  really  decent  para- 
graph or  two,  Lou,"  Vicky  said  softly  and  gruffly,  at  length. 


376    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Lou  merely  sighed,  in  the  gloom.  "He  was  awfully  nice  about 
it,"  said  Victoria. 

"I  knew  yesterday,"  Lou  presently  announced  indifferently. 
"I  went  to  town  to  meet  him  to-day.  I  was  going  away  with 
him  anyway!" 

This  was  awful.     Vicky  felt  actually  frightened. 

"No,  you  weren't,  Lou!"  she  said  tenderly. 

"Yes,  I  was.  I  think,"  further  confided  Lou,  in  an  oddly 
detached  and  lifeless  tone,  "I  think  I  always  knew  that  there 
was  something  wrong.  But  I  didn't  care.  He  always  seemed 
to  be  giving  me  so  much — except  the  one  thing.  I  knew  he 
didn't  love  me." 

"Lou — Lou!"  Victoria  pleaded,  as  the  voice  in  the  dusk  was 
still,  "will  it — will  it  break  your  heart?" 

"Oh,  Lord,"  Lou  said  violently,  sitting  up  and  raising  her 
hands  to  her  disordered  hair,  "what's  the  difference  if  it  does? 
Everything's  rotten  anyway — I've  never  had  any  real  fun,  like 
other  girls!  We  don't — we're  voodooed — as  Carra  says.  What 
is  Mama  doing — but  wishing  that  girls  with  such  a  wonderful 
father  would  only  remember  that  all  his  rules  are  for  the  best " 

"Lou,  don't!"  Vicky  said,  shocked. 

"I'll  go  down  and  have  it  over!"  Lou  lighted  the  gas. 
"It's  all  in  the  day's  work!" 

And  to  Vick's  secret  amazement  and  admiration  she  walked 
quietly  out  of  the  room,  with  her  flushed  face,  tearless  eyes  and 
tumbled  dark  hair  untouched,  and  her  slender  figure  erect  and 
proudly  held. 

The  smoke  of  painful  notoriety  and  criticism  died  away;  life 
was  what  it  had  always  been.  Lola  was  ill,  fretted  by  hopes 
of  motherhood  for  the  second  time.  Lou  went  to  stay  a  night 
in  her  brother's  house  in  Sausalito;  ended  by  making  a  visit  of 
many  months.  Lola  spent  almost  all  her  time  in  bed;  to  her 
and  to  Bertie  the  presence  of  the  helpful  practical  Lou  was  a 
godsend.  Long  before  Bertie's  delicate,  Spanish-looking  little 
girl  was  born,  they  felt  that  they  could  not  manage  at  all  with- 
out Lou. 

One  September  morning,  when  life  chanced  to  seem  bright 
and  entertaining  to  Vicky,  her  mother  telephoned  her  from 
town.  May  had  gone  over  to  Fanny's  house  to  be  a  few  days 
with  their  father.     Tina  was  with  Grace,  and  Aunt  Lucy  was 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    377 

staying  with  Vicky  and  Bobo.  Aunt  and  niece  were  having  a 
delightful  time,  with  dishes  and  gossip,  and  Victoria  was  secretly 
sorry  that  Mama  was  coming  home  to-night. 

May  was  agitated;  Papa  was  most  anxious  to  know  if  Mr. 
Torrey  had  brought  over  an  envelope  yesterday.  Vicky  re- 
sponded vivaciously  in  the  affirmative.  Did  Vick  know  what 
was  in  it?    May  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,  Mama,"  the  girl  answered  readily,  "a  hundred  and 
seventeen  dollars!" 

"Sh-sh!"  May  said,  in  a  panic  of  caution,  "darling!  A  thief 
might  be  on  the  line.  .  .  .  Vick,  you  are  to  pin  that  en- 
velope safely  in  your  pocket  and  bring  it  straight  to  Papa. 
Bring  your  dress-suit  case,  and  stay  overnight  with  Aunt  Fanny. 
Ask  Aunt  Lucy  if  she  is  going  to  have  a  bite  ready  for  us  poor 
travelers  if  we  all  come  back  on  the  five-fifteen  ?" 

Lucy  answered  with  alacrity;  she  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
see  to  dinner.  Vicky  tore  off  her  cotton  gown,  snatched  satin 
stock  and  tailor  suit,  and  ran  for  the  one  o'clock  train. 

This  was  very  pleasant,  she  thought,  sitting  upstairs  on  the 
ferry-boat,  watching  the  gentle  tip  of  scrubbed  decks  and  blue 
water,  and  feeling  the  autumn  sunshine  warm  upon  her  polished 
black  shoes  and  the  neat  flare  of  her  long  skirt.  She  clutched 
at  her  pocket  now  and  then;  the  precious  envelope  was  safe. 

At  the  ferry,  unexpectedly,  she  met  her  mother,  looking 
harassed  and  grim. 

"You  have  that  money,  Vicky?  Take  it  straight  to  your 
father  and  then  come  directly  home!"  May  said  sternly.  "And 
I  ought  to  warn  you,"  she  added,  "that  he  is  extremely  angry 
with  you!" 

Victoria  paled.  The  bright  day  and  the  bright  mood  dark- 
ened together.     Her  heart  jumped. 

"Oh,  Mama— why?" 

"Why?"  May  echoed  angrily.  "Why,  because  a  daughter  of 
ours — a  grown  woman — writes  to  a  common  farmer's  boy  like 
Davy  Dudley  what  is  virtually  an  offer  of  marriage — that's  all 
*I  can  call  it !" 

The  girl  felt  her  mouth  grow  dry  and  her  throat  thicken. 
Everything — the  autumn  sunshine  on  the  long  wooden  ferry 
building,  the  moving  crowds,  the  mellow  sound  of  ferry-boat 
horns,  was  brassy  and  hideous  to  her  sick  eyes. 

"Vicky,  how  can  you  explain  what  you  wrote?"  May  asked 


378    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

with  ominous  patience.  "Fortunately,  thank  God — it  never 
reached  him!"  she  added  passionately.  "The  postman  handed 
it  to  Papa  when  he  was  leaving  the  house  this  morning — it  had 
come  all  the  way  back!  Evidently  your  friend  David  is  no  longer 
there  and  left  no  forwarding  address. 

"To  a  proud  man  like  your  father!"  May  went  on,  cut- 
tingly, as  Victoria,  her  face  a  deep  red,  made  no  answer,  "Oh, 
how  could  you — how  could  you!  As  if  Lou's  affair  wasn't 
enough!  And  you're  not  a  child,  Vick,"  May  reproached  her. 
"You  know  better!" 

"I  was  only  fooling!"  Victoria  stammered. 

"Well,  you  go  see  your  father,  and  you'll  find  out  what  he 
thinks  of  your  fooling"  May  warned  her  significantly.  "Fool- 
ing! I  think  it's  about  time  you  stopped  fooling,  then.  He  told 
me  that  he  was  going  to — but  you  go  see  him.  Perhaps  a  few 
days  in  your  room,  on  bread  and  water,  will  make  you  feel  differ- 
ently about  it!  Papa  spoke  to  me  seriously  about  sending  you 
away  from  home  for  awhile — away  from  your  mother  and  sis- 
ters!" 

"I  wish  to  goodness  he  would!"  Vicky  said  passionately. 

May  eyed  her  silently;  pallid  with  heat  and  emotion. 

"Some  day  you  will  wish  that  you  had  died,  like  our  darling 
Esme,  who  never  gave  Mama  one  instant's  sorrow  in  her  life, 
before  you  said  that,  Vicky!"  she  said  in  a  frightened  whisper, 
trembling.  "What  happiness  in  life  can  come  to  a  girl  who — if 
that's  right,  I've  got  to  hurry!"  May  interrupted  herself,  sud- 
denly, in  her  natural  voice,  as  she  looked  at  the  ferry  clock. 
Grasping  her  bundles,  she  went  on  with  a  severe  parting  glance, 
and  Vicky  turned  back  from  the  ticket-gate  with  a  bitter  taste 
in  her  mouth. 

Nothing  for  it  but  to  go  up  and  face  Papa;  and  later  to  face 
them  all.  Nothing  but  to  accept  disgrace  and  punishment 
like  a  child.  Her  letter  to  Davy  in  their  hands!  It  was  too 
terrible  to  believe! 

She  turned  toward  the  offices  of  Crabtree  and  Company,  only 
a  few  blocks  away  from  the  ferry.  Slowly,  breathing  deeply, 
and  with  her  mind  in  a  whirl,  Victoria  walked  over  the  warm 
soft  tar  of  the  pavements,  and  up  through  the  good  smells  of  the 
warehouse  district;  smells  of  bananas  and  apples  and  coffee  and 
onions  and  wet  straw  and  horses,  smells  of  clean  citrus  fruits 
and  tarred  new  ropes  and  fresh  pine  boxes.     It  had  always 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    379 

fascinated  her,  this  region  of  sheds  and  tarpaulin  awnings,  of 
glinting  sunlight  on  shaded  sidewalks,  of  trampled  peels  and 
skins  and  cabbage  leaves,  of  bursting  barrels  and  crates  and 
sacks.  It  fascinated  her  even  to-day,  and  she  loitered  quite 
consciously  there. 

Bananas  and  pineapples  from  Hawaii,  and  coffee  from  Java. 
The  very  names  were  an  inspiration,  in  these  crowded  streets 
that  ran  straight  down  to  the  masts  of  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
ships.  The  harbour  was  full  of  shipping,  whistles  blew,  men 
with  trucks  ran  to  and  fro.  The  world  was  full  of  stir  and  ad- 
venture. 

Suddenly,  miraculously,  Vicky  realized  that  she  was  not  going 
to  see  Papa;  she  was  not  afraid  of  any  of  them.  It  was  ridicu- 
lous— a  grown  woman  of  twenty-seven,  trembling  and  fearing 
like  a  sick  child !  They  could  not  harm  her,  they  could  not  hold 
her.     She  was  going  to  work! 

Thrilled  and  exhilarated,  she  went  back  to  the  wharf;  climbed 
upon  a  Market  Street  car,  and  went  boldly  up  to  the  Palace 
Hotel.  She  had  a  hundred  and  seventeen  dollars;  and  she  was 
going  away  to  find  work. 

The  ticket  offices  were  all  up  in  the  Palace  Hotel.  Just  before 
she  entered  one,  Vicky  met  Lily  Duvalette,  divorced  now,  and 
with  a  young  man  in  tow.  They  took  her  to  tea  in  the  Palace 
Grill;  Lily  not  too  cordial,  but  Vicky  her  gayest  self;  so  much  so 
that  Lily's  escort  turned  the  battery  of  his  fatuous  and  inane 
I  remarks  quite  pointedly  toward  Miss  Brewer.  Vicky  managed 
to  give  the  angry  Lily  the  impression  that  this  was  the  way 
\  things  always  happened  between  men  and  Victoria  Brewer. 

Her  mind  was  made  up.  She  was  going  to  Uncle  Bob,  in 
[  Sacramento.  Uncle  Bob  had  said  that  he  would  help  her,  if  ever 
!  she  needed  him.  She  went  briskly  into  the  office;  she  must  send 
f  him  a  telegram. 

There  was  one  real  danger  in  the  plan;  she  would  have  to  risk 
it.  Papa  was  always  on  the  five-fifteen  boat  from  the  Sausalito 
ferry.  The  Sacramento  train  was  reached  by  the  Oakland  boat 
at  five-fifteen,  only  a  few  hundred  feet  away,  from  the  same 
)  ferry  building.  He  might  see  her.  Well,  he  simply  mustn't  see 
her. 

Half-past  four  o'clock  now.  Victoria  bought  herself  a  bunch 
of  flowers  at  Lotta's  fountain,  and  a  bag  of  peanut  taffy  at 
Maskey's.     Life  flooded  her  deliciously ;  she  was  her  own  mis- 


38o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

tress  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  She  walked  to  the  ferry  down 
Mission  Street;  nobody  one  knew  ever  walked  on  Mission  Street, 
A  trembling  excitement  possessed  her.  Aloud  she  said,  more 
than  once: 

"  I'll  show  them !  I'm  not  afraid  of  them ! "  And  when  a  man 
coming  toward  her  startled  her  suddenly  with  a  resemblance  to 
Bertie,  she  went  past  him  breathing  defiantly.  "I  wouldn't  care 
if  it  was!"  she  said.     "I  wish  it  was!" 

But  she  realized  that  she  was  frightened  when  she  got  to  the 
ferry,  which  was  surging  now  with  the  tides  of  returning  country 
visitors,  and  commuters  leaving  offices  and  factories  in  the 
city.  Hot  shafts  of  sunlight  streamed  across  the  scene;  cable 
cars  clanged  and  clattered  as  the  little  turn-table  reversed  them, 
one  by  one,  for  the  start  uptown  again.  Victoria's  heart  beat 
fast;  every  man  might  be  Papa,  any  chance  encounter  might 
betray  her. 

She  sidled  along  the  piers  from  Mission  Street,  past  the  little 
Post  Office,  into  the  Oakland  line  of  the  ferry  sheds.  Hay 
wagons,  trucks  full  of  thundering  barrels,  rumbled  by  her.  Ter- 
ror possessed  her  when  she  recognized  the  Kingwells,  mother 
and  sons  from  Mill  Valley,  running  from  the  Howard  Street 
car.  Well — well — supposing  they  did  see  her,  and  did  tell  Papa 
on  the  boat  that  they  had  seen  her,  what  could  he  do? 

Five  minutes  past  five.  In  ten  minutes — in  nine,  she  told  her- 
self, it  would  all  be  over.  She  would  be  on  her  boat,  and  Papa 
on  his;  after  that  every  second  would  more  and  more  part  them. 

She  eyed  the  ticket-gate  nervously.  If  it  would  only  open 
and  she  might  wait  inside!  But  the  Oakland  boats  were  too 
crowded  and  too  many;  they  never  opened  their  gates  until  a 
few  seconds  before  sailing. 

Vicky  stood  in  the  protection  of  a  post,  nervously  glancing 
to  right  and  left.  Her  heart  turned  to  water.  Someone  had 
come  up.     Aunt  Fanny. 

Victoria  could  hardly  hear  her.  Everything  was  lost!  She 
felt  a  faintness  in  her  stomach,  her  legs  trembled,  and  her  voice 
was  thick. 

"Vicky!  For  heaven's  sake!"  exclaimed  Fanny.  "We've 
only  five  minutes.     Where's  your  father?" 

"Buying" —  Vicky's  throat  was  dry,  but  desperation  lent 
her  wit — "Buying  a  shine,"  she  said.  "You  go  ahead,  Aunt 
Fanny.     We'll — we'll  meet  you  upstairs  on  the  boat!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    381 

"Yes,  because  Fve  got  to  get  a  ticket!  Upstairs  on  the 
Gate  side!"  Fanny  cried,  hurrying  away. 

Victoria  was  alone  again;  but  she  felt  shaken  and  weak.  Her 
mouth  was  dry  and  her  head  confused.  She  felt  the  palms  of 
her  hands  wet  and  cold.  Suppose — suppose  Aunt  Fanny  met 
Papa,  in  the  Sausalito  waiting  room,  suppose  he  asked — he  was 
naturally  anxious  about  both  his  money  and  his  daughter — sup- 
pose he  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  Vicky?  Suppose  he  suspected 
and  came  flying  over  to  the  Oakland  waiting-room — he  would 
think  nothing  of  missing  his  boat,  to  stop  her  in  her  flight! 

If  she  could  make  the  Howard  Street  car,  disappear  into  the 

Mission She  dared  not  leave  her  post.    She  must.     She  picked 

up  the  dress-suit  case  at  her  feet 

Everything  went  black;  her  heart  seemed  to  tear  itself  from 
her  body.  Everything  was  over.  They  had  found  her.  She 
felt  the  muscles  of  her  face  stiffen  into  a  terrified  and  sickly  smile 
as  she  turned 

It  was  Davy  Dudley  who  stood  smiling  beside  her,  his  hat 
ofF  and  his  hand  held  out.  He  had  gotten  home  two  days  ago, 
he  explained,  with  his  first  greeting,  had  seen  them  all  at  Napa, 
had  come  to  the  city  yesterday,  and  was  going  home  again  now. 

"Then  we  go  on  the  same  train;  I'm  going  to  Sacramento," 
Vicky  said  confusedly.  All  lesser  emotions  were  lost  in  a  deep 
flood  of  utter  confidence  and  peace  of  spirit ;  here  was  Davy.  She 
knew  that  she  loved  him  more  than  ever,  everything  was  all  right 
now,  nothing  puzzled  or  frightened  her,  it  would  all  be  straight- 
ened out;  here  was  Davy. 

"You  certainly  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  leave  you,  no  mat- 
ter where  you  were  going?"  Davy  said,  meeting  her  mood  in 
exactly  her  own  spirit.  He  picked  up  her  suit  case.  "Come 
on,  we'll  go  on  the  boat,"  he  said.  He  glanced  sidewise  at  her, 
as  she  quietly  and  contentedly  accompanied  him;  smiled  with  so 
deep  and  sweet  and  entirely  happy  a  smile  that  Victoria  needed 
no  words.     The  miracle  had  happened ;  they  were  together  again. 

Streamers  of  sunset  light  poured  over  the  city;  their  long 
shadows  moved  ahead  of  them.  Everything,  everyone  looked 
delightful  to  Vicky,  she  was  not  excited,  she  was  not  agitated  and 
doubtful,  as  she  might  have  supposed  herself  to  be,  meeting 
David.     Instead  she  felt  only  a  fundamental  joy  and  peace. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  upper  deck  of  the  Encinal,  watching 
the  traffic  about  the  piers,  and  the  circling  gulls,  when  the  San 


382    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Rafael,  not  three  hundred  feet  away,  whistled  sharply;  their 
own  boat  echoed  the  whistle,  and  both  the  clumsy  vessels  moved 
steadily  from  their  docks.  Every  second  now  carried  Papa  and 
Aunt  Fanny  farther  away  over  the  shining  sunset  colours  of  the 
water;  a  deep  content  and  confidence  wrapped  Victoria  as  in  a 
garment. 

She  looked  appraisingly  at  Davy,  while  they  talked.  He 
was  taller,  she  thought,  thinner  certainly,  and  while  still  ex- 
tremely shabby,  he  had  improved  enormously  in  appearance. 
His  shoulders  were  better  carried,  his  hair  clipped  shorter,  and 
his  big  hands  were  covered  by  old  gray  gloves.  In  his  face  there 
was  a  remarkable  change;  it  was  older,  and  in  some  subtle  way 
more  grave,  his  mouth  had  definite  lines,  and  Vicky  liked  the 
quick  flash  of  response  or  question  in  his  blue  eyes. 

He  sat  beside  her,  in  the  balmy  late  afternoon  light,  his  hands 
thrust  in  his  pockets,  his  ankles  stretched  before  him  and  crossed, 
and  his  head  turning  to  watch  her  whenever  she  spoke.  Vicky 
questioned  him  about  his  work  in  Berlin,  amused  whenever  a 
German  word  came  inadvertently  into  his  descriptions. 

He  was  talking  to  her  as  he  had  never  talked  before;  she  real- 
ized that  at  once.  He  held  her  left  hand  firmly  in  his  right, 
her  elbow  locked  in  his;  he  was  telling  her  gravely  and  thor- 
oughly just  what  difficulties  he  had  encountered.  His  Aunt 
Lil's  illness  and  death,  last  spring,  had  been  expensive,  and  his 
mother  had  finished  the  rooms  on  the  mansard  floor  of  her  house, 
that  had  never  been  completed.  That  was  done  now,  and  paid 
for,  it  was  all  paid  for. 

Vicky  listening  with  an  intent  and  serious  face,  said  nothing 
aloud.  In  her  heart  she  said  over  and  over,  "I  love  you.  I 
love  you.     I  love  you." 

"I  told  you  last  year  I  didn't  want  to  practise  in  Napa;  I 
want  to  specialize,"  Davy  reminded  her,  with  the  new  stern,  firm 
movement  of  his  mouth,  on  the  words.  "I  went  in  to  see  Dr. 
Dunham  yesterday.  I  thought  that  if  I  could  work  with  one  of 
those  big  fellows However,  he's  just  asked  Jack  Chatter- 
ton.  Gosh,"  Davy  interrupted  himself,  shaking  his  head 
grimly,  "That  kid  Chatterton  is  lucky!  Well,  I  went  to  New- 
man and  Newman  wants  me.  But  he's  going  abroad,  moving 
his  offices  to  get  more  space,  and  says  he's  got  to  have  a  vacation 
He  and  his  wife  and  boy  are  going  around  the  world." 

"I  see,"  Vicky  commented  thoughtfully. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  383 

"Now,  old  Boone  in  Napa  wants  me,"  Davy  said,  dubiously. 
"It's  good  general  practise,  do  you  see?  And  of  course  my 
mother  would  be  wild  with  joy  to  have  me  home.  Everything's 
going  better  with  them.  'Lizabeth's  husband  is  making  money, 
Mary  has  a  job,  and  this  would  be  the  best  thing — for  her.  But 
that  means  that  I'm  a  Napa  family  doctor  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
Otherwise " 

"Yes,  I  was  going  to  ask,  what  otherwise?"  Vicky  inter- 
rupted, as  he  paused. 

"Well,  that  means "     He  tightened  his  arm  about  hers, 

and  smiled  down  at  her.  "That  means  that  I  hang  out  a  shingle 
in  San  Francisco,  and  wait"  he  said.  And  as  Vicky  sat  thought- 
fully staring  down  at  the  moving  sheen  of  the  bright  water,  and 
the  riding  and  swooping  gulls,  he  added,  "It's  for  you  to  decide." 

Vicky  reflected ;  fear  was  gone  from  her,  shame  was  gone  from 
her,  doubt  was  gone.  For  the  first  time  in  her  twenty-eight 
years  she  was  talking  to  a  man  honestly  and  simply. 

"Davy,"  she  said  suddenly,  all  the  womanly  sweetness  and 
tenderness  she  had  always  been  afraid  to  show  shining  in  her 
face.  "I  can't  tell  you  what  it  means  to  me — meeting  you  this 
way,  having  you  to  help  me — to  stand  back  of  me.  I'm  in 
trouble  at  home — I'm  running  away " 

She  told  him  the  whole  story:  David  listening  with  an  attentive 
frown  that  gradually  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"You  poor  girl,  you!  Do  you  call  that  trouble?"  he  asked, 
when  she  was  done. 

"Well,  it  doesn't  seem  so,  now,"  Vicky  admitted,  with  a  laugh. 

"Ah — h!"  David  breathed,  on  a  long,  relieved  sigh.  "The 
main  thing — the  important  thing,  is  that — here  we  are." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Victoria  assented,  in  satisfaction. 

"We've  got  to  settle  it  all  to-night,  right  on  this  trip,"  Davy 
asserted  further.  "We  may  not  have  another  chance.  We've 
got  to  make  our  plans!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Victoria  said  docilely  again. 

Davy  sat  staring  straight  ahead  of  him,  for  perhaps  a  full 
silent  minute.  Then  he  turned  to  her  a  smile  that  was  a  little 
surprised,  under  its  quiet  triumph. 

"We're  engaged,  you  know,"  he  told  her. 

Victoria  made  a  brief  sound  between  "ha!"  and  "oh!"  her 
bright  eyes  smiling  into  his. 

"After  all  the  worry,  and  the  loneliness,  over  there  in  Berlin, 


384    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

here  we  are,"  Davy  commented  after  a  pause.  "I  can't  believe 
it.     I  used  to  watch  for  your  letters " 

"But,  Davy,  you  didn't  write  very  often!" 

"Because  I  didn't  dare — that's  why.  I  wrote  oftener  than 
you  did !  You  know  what  your  father  said,  that  day  of  the  forest 
fire — he  sat  on  me.     Do  you  remember  that  day?" 

"Lou  and  I  were  getting  supper,"  Vicky  nodded,  "and  hoping 
Mama'd  ask  you  to  stay." 

"Well,  your  father  asked  me  if  I  felt  badly,  leaving  home 
again,  and  I  said — Vicky,  I  had  to!"  Davy  tightened  her  arm 
again.  "I  had  to,  dear!"  he  pleaded.  "I  was  so  down  and  out 
that  day — I  wanted  so  to  ask  you  then,  and  have  you  writing  me 
letters,  you  know! — to  have  something  to  go  on.  So  I  said  that 
the  thing  I  minded  leaving  most  was  right  there  in  his  house. 
He  sat  on  me — I  knew  he  would.  He  was  sort  of  tut-tutty,  he 
said  it  would  be  many  years  before  I  had  the  right  to  ask  his 
daughter,  or  any  man's  daughter,  that.  Said  he  didn't  want 
you  upset " 

"Upset!"  Victoria  exclaimed  resentfully.  "When  I  was  hun- 
gering— hungering — Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  asked  impatiently  of 
an  approaching  deck-hand.  "Oh,  yes,  we're  in,  Davy,  we're  the 
last!"  she  said  with  a  confused  laugh,  getting  to  her  feet.  She 
followed  David  along  the  almost  emptied  deck,  over  the  up- 
stairs gangplank,  down  a  long,  rubber-coated  runway,  up  the 
damp,  dark,  spacious  passages  between  the  trains.  These  were 
puffing  and  steaming  restlessly  under  a  high  sooty  roof;  the 
ground  underfoot  was  wet  with  cindery  pools,  and  black  with 
grime. 

They  did  not  speak,  but  every  time  David  glanced  down 
beside  him  he  saw  her  eyes  looking  up,  and  into  his  own  look, 
and  into  his  own  heart,  there  crept  the  first  ecstasy  of  protection 
and  companionship.  Her  beauty,  her  animation,  her  flowered 
hat,  her  soft  glove,  thrilled  him  alike;  he  watched  her  when  she 
spoke  in  so  confident  and  friendly  a  tone  to  the  porter,  when  she 
settled  herself  in  a  red  velvet  seat  in  the  hot  train. 

The  long  car  was  filled  with  pairs  of  these  narrow,  jointed 
seats;  some  passengers  were  stretched  out  in  them  as  in  deck 
chairs,  others  sat  erect,  with  their  heads  held  primly  against  the 
white  towels  of  the  head  rests.  The  racks  above  the  seats  were 
filled  with  coats  and  telescope  baskets,  with  here  and  there  a 
smart  new  dress-suit  case.     It  was  dark  in  the  car,  under  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  g   385 

shed,  and  the  atmosphere  smelled  of  steam  and  hot  oil  and  thick 
dry  dusty  velvet. 

David  found  two  empty  chairs,  and  stowed  his  bag  and 
Victoria's  above  them.  A  train  boy  bumped  through,  and  as 
they  sat  down,  a  steam  valve  below  them  was  opened,  the  shrill 
strong  gasp  of  escaping  steam  deafened  them,  and  the  white 
fumes  poured  by  their  window,  and  shut  out  the  dark  view  of 
train  hands  and  porters  on  the  tracks. 

They  sat  in  darkness,  their  hands  locked.  And  presently  the 
train  gave  a  violent  jerk  throughout  its  length,  brakes  screamed 
and  chains  jarred,  and  they  were  sliding  smoothly  out  between 
the  shining  flat  marshes,  and  the  coal  barges,  and  the  duck 
blinds  of  the  Oakland  side.  Vicky  turned  to  see  David  watch- 
ing her. 

"Vicky,"  he  said  solemnly,  "no  man  ever  loved  a  woman  as  I 
love  you.  You  are  going  to  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world." 

They  looked  out  upon  shabby  little  cottages  and  sheds,  in 
the  blaze  of  sunset  light,  upon  back  yards,  empty  lots,  broken 
fences,  and  goats;  and  to  them  everything  looked  magically 
sweet  and  interesting.  Their  hands  were  still  linked,  Victoria 
leaned  blissfully  upon  Davy's  shoulder.  Train  boys  went 
through  with  fruit  and  magazines;  the  sunset  faded,  the  world 
was  gray.  And  still  they  murmured  unbrokenly,  with  their 
heads  close  together,  reviewing,  remembering,  promising,  ex- 
ulting. 

"Here's  what  we'll  do,"  Davy  finally  decided.  "You  come 
home  with  me  to  Mother,  to-night.  You'll  love  her  and  she'll 
love  you.  We'll  tell  her  we're  engaged,  we  won't  say  anything 
more  to-night,  except  that  you  had  some  trouble  and  left  home. 
And  to-morrow  we'll  be  married!" 

The  magnificence  of  it  took  Victoria's  breath  away. 

"But,  Davy,  your  city  practice?" 

"I've  thought  it  all  out.  This  is  what  we'll  do.  I'll  stay  in 
Napa  and  practise  awhile  with  old  Boone.  It  won't  hurt  me, 
and  it  won't  prevent  me  trying  the  city  if  we  get  a  little  ahead. 
You  don't  want  to  go  back  home;  they'd  only  make  you  miser- 
able— it's  time  you  and  I  took  matters  into  our  own  hands. 
You're  not  afraid,  Vicky?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  what  a  perfectly  marvellous  man- 
ager I  am!"  Vicky  answered  with  spirit.     "Afraid!    What  of?" 


386    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Of  poverty,  darling!"  Davy  said,  shaken  with  deep  laughter. 
"Of  work  and  worry — what  did  you  say?" 

She  was  suddenly  grave,  looking  down. 

"I'm  only  afraid  of  our  being  separated  again,  Davy,  by 
Mama  or  Papa  or  somebody,  or  something,"  Vicky  replied, 
very  low.  "I'm  never  afraid — with  you,"  she  said,  smiling,  but 
with  wet  eyelashes.  Davy  put  his  head  back  against  the  pinned 
towel  and  shut  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  heard  him  whisper,  breathlessly.  And 
then  for  a  long  time  they  sat  silent,  with  tight-clasped  hands. 

It  was  in  a  still-lingering  dusk  that  they  reached  Napa. 
Victoria  felt  stiff  and  dirty  and  extremely  hungry.  Davy 
guided  her  in  the  lamp-lighted  streets.  Around  this  corner, 
across  this  bit  of  empty  lot,  and  here  they  were — this  was  the 
house. 

Victoria  had  an  impression  of  a  picket  fence,  looming  dimly 
white  in  shadows,  and  of  the  front  of  a  big  square  mansard  house, 
surrounded  by  the  lofty  and  gloomy  shadows  of  trees.  Davy 
pushed  the  gate,  led  her  through,  and  up  the  front  steps  to  the 
opened  front  door.  Inside  there  was  the  unmistakable  odour 
of  old  furniture  and  upholstery,  at  the  end  of  a  warm  day. 

Mrs.  Dudley  was  merely  a  dim  silhouette  against  the  dull  pane 
of  a  kitchen  window.  She  was  evidently  dozing  in  the  warm 
dusk;  she  started  up  in  surprise;  a  match  winked  yellowly,  and 
they  blinked  and  smiled  at  each  other. 

"Well,  good  grief!  Why  in  the  land's  name  didn't  you  say 
you  was  going  to  bring  Miss  Brewer!"  exclaimed  Davy's  mother, 
lighting  the  gas,  kissing  him,  and  after  a  second's  scrutiny  kissing 
Victoria  as  well.  "I  was  reading  the  paper,  and  the  light  went," 
she  explained  apologetically.  "Look  at  my  dishes — Mary's  gone 
to  the  rehearsal — and  look  at  me  in  this  old  percale!" 

"You  look  grand,"  Davy  said,  "but  we're  starving.  You 
take  Victoria  upstairs,  she's  going  to  stay  the  night  with  us, 
and  I'll  start  your  fire  up." 

"If  I'm  not  intruding,"  Vicky  said  nervously,  on  the  stairs. 

"No,  my  dear,  it's  not  that,"  Mrs.  Dudley  said  in  an  annoyed 
tone.  Vicky's  heart  sank;  it  was  something  else,  then.  "But 
that  boy!"  the  older  woman  said  vexedly,  introducing  Vicky  to 
a  large  dim  bedroom — a  girl's  bedroom  full  of  dance  cards  and 
souvenirs,  a  banjo  and  ship's  ribbons  and  a  red  glass  stein.     "He 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    387 

walks  you  in  here,  and  I  looking  like  the  wrath  to  come!" 
protested  David's  mother.  "The  bathroom's  this  way,  dear, 
there's  a  step  down.  Don't  it  stay  hot  up  here?  Now,  when 
you're  ready,  just  come  down,  for  I  believe  I'll  run  along  and 
get  you  something  to  eat.     You  drink  coffee,  don't  you?" 

"Anything,"  Victoria  said,  wishing  she  was  not  too  shy  to 
explain  that  David's  bringing  her  here  to-night  was  an  act  of 
pure  goodness.  Feeling  uncomfortable,  but  brushed  and  re- 
freshed, she  went  slowly  downstairs  a  few  minutes  later,  and 
paused  outside  the  kitchen  door. 

The  sound  of  brisk  frying  was  pleasantly  audible  inside,  and 
above  it  Vicky  could  hear  Davy's  mother  still  grumbling  and 
mildly  accusatory.     Vicky  turned  the  knob. 

"Oh,  you're  not  going  to  set  the  dining-room  table  for  us!" 
she  protested,  shyness  instantly  forgotten  at  the  sight  of  the  un- 
folded white  cloth  in  her  hostess's  hand.  "Oh,  please!  Do  let 
us  eat  here — Davy,  make  her!" 

And  with  practised  hands  she  began  to  straighten  the  kitchen 
table,  where  it  was  evident  some  meal  had  recently  taken  place. 
Mrs.  Dudley  watched  unfavourably.  "The  idea!"  she  kept  mur- 
muring.    "Well,  I  declare!" 

But  when  Vicky  sat  down  with  great  appetite  to  omelette  and 
fresh  rolls  and  jam,  and  when  Davy's  eager  laugh  rang  out,  and 
when  Mary,  coming  in  with  a  high,  protesting  query,  "Who  left 
the  gas  burning  up  in  the  bathroom?"  and  joined  them,  and  fell 
an  instant  victim  to  the  charms  of  Davy's  girl,  Mrs.  Dudley 
somewhat  softened. 

"Well,  I  declare,  you're  a  wonder!"  she  conceded,  as  Vicky 
wielded  a  tea-towel  with  a  practised  hand,  and  refused  to  leave 
the  kitchen  until  the  last  crumb  was  brushed  away.  And  she 
came  upstairs  a  few  minutes  later  to  find  Mary  and  Vicky  in 
friendly  gales  of  laughter  over  the  fresh  sheets  for  the  extra  bed 
in  Mary's  room. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  formality;  they  talked  like  old 
friends.  Vicky  heard  a  hundred  details  of  family  history  that 
Davy  would  not  have  given  her  in  a  hundred  years,  and  when  he 
shouted  from  below  that  he  wanted  to  take  her  for  a  walk,  just 
around  the  block,  both  Mary  and  her  mother  protested.  Vicky 
was  in  the  middle  of  her  own  story;  they  were  indignant  and 
thrilled  over  it;  Davy  could  wait  five  minutes,  they  said. 

"Don't  you  stay  out  late  now;  you're  dog-tired,"  Mrs.  Dudley 


388    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

said,  with  a  motherly  kiss,  before  Vicky  ran  down.  "You  tell 
that  boy  he'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk  to  you,  you're  going  to 
make  a  good  long  visit!     I'll  sit  up  for  you,  dear." 

"I'll  tell  him!"  Vicky  called.  But  the  man  she  found  waiting 
for  her  downstairs  was  a  Davy  she  had  never  seen;  a  man  whose 
strong  arm  about  her,  whose  passionate  kisses  upon  her  lips 
under  the  softly  waving  trees  that  had  hidden  hundreds  of  such 
strolling  lovers  upon  summer  evenings,  and  whose  burning  words, 
drove  from  her  mind  everything  else  in  the  world  except  that 
they  loved  each  other,  and  were  together  at  last. 

The  next  day,  at  exactly  eleven  o'clock,  he  and  she  went  into 
the  telegraph  office  at  the  station,  and  worded  a  telegram.  It 
was  sen"  to  Stephen  Brewer,  San  Rafael. 

"Safe  and  well,  married  to  David  Dudley  this  morning.  Send- 
ing money.     Love.    Victoria,"  it  read. 

This  done,  they  went  home  with  David's  mother  and  Mary, 
and  there  was  great  kissing  and  laughing.  Mrs.  Dudley  was 
not  the  type  that  questioned  anything  her  son  did;  Davy  was 
perfection  in  her  eyes.  Vicky  had  had  a  fight  with  her  folks, 
and  she  and  Davy  didn't  see  any  use  in  waiting  for  fresh  trouble 
to  brew,  was  her  explanation  of  the  whole  affair,  to  amazed  and 
interested  Napa.  Davy  Dudley's  wedding  was  a  nine-days' 
wonder. 

Vicky  and  Davy  were  too  utterly,  exquisitely  happy  to  care. 
Their  only  wedding  trip  was  out  to  see  a  case  in  the  asylum; 
they  drove  in  Doc'  Boone's  old  buggy,  and  lingered  all  the  way. 
And  Vicky's  only  establishment,  as  a  bride,  was  the  big  front 
mansard  room,  into  which  Mary  and  'Lizabeth  and  their  mother, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  wedding,  took  flowers,  and  the  best 
chairs,  and  the  table,  and  the  blue  rug.  That  night,  her  wedding 
night,  after  a  family  dinner  of  chicken  and  ice-cream,  Vicky 
and  Davy  took  a  long  drive,  again  behind  the  old  Boone  horse, 
far  up  into  the  sweet  silent  hills.  When  they  came  back,  at  ten 
o'clock,  the  house  was  absolutely  dark  and  still;  Davy  turned 
out  the  bead  of  gas  in  the  lower  hallway,  and  shut  the  front  door, 
and  guided  Vicky  up  the  still  unfamiliar  stairs,  their  hands 
clasped. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DURING  their  entire  occupation  of  the  ranch,  rent-free 
pending  a  court  decision,  for  something  like  eight  years, 
Nelly  and  Rudy  had  felt  no  permanent  tie  there.  Their 
claim  gradually  weakened  and  weakened  until,  with  no  sense  of 
surprise,  they  realized  that  they  must  either  buy  it  outright 
from  the  heirs  of  the  original  owner,  or  move. 

To  move  was  their  only  course.  They  had  no  money  saved; 
they  revelled  in  a  sense  of  bitter  injustice,  telling  the  few  persons 
interested  that  the  judge  at  Martinez  had  been  bribed  on  ac- 
count of  the  water  right,  and  that  they  and  their  children  were 
to  be  "  kicked  out."  Nelly  cried,  as  she  went  indifferently  about 
the  little  greasy,  smoked,  dirty  kitchen,  and  Hildegarde,  watch- 
ing her  anxiously,  acquired  a  life-long  hatred  for  " banks"  and 
"judges."  There  were  three  little  boys  in  Nelly's  nursery  now 
besides  her  first-born  girl,  a  red-eyed  little  baby  named  Stuart, 
with  permanent  sniffles,  had  displaced  Lloyd  as  the  baby. 

But  once  the  blow  had  fallen,  Nelly  found  to  her  amazement 
that  things  had  really  taken  a  turn  for  the  better.  Rudy,  to  be 
sure,  had  lost  the  Canfield  ranch,  but  he  had  sold  his  stock  and 
machinery  at  a  good  price,  and  he  was  weaned,  once  and  for  all, 
from  "Brady's  gang"  at  the  saloon.  Then  Royal  Larabee, 
who  had  a  brother-in-law  in  San  Bruno,  seven  miles  south  of 
San  Francisco  in  the  real  estate  business,  suggested  that  Rudy 
apply  to  him  for  a  position,  and  Rudy  went  there  at  once,  and 
wrote  Nelly,  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  place,  and  secure  of  the 
job. 

Nelly  was  secretly  a  little  astonished  that  he  should  do  this; 
she  had  lost  faith  in  Rudy,  but  she  prepared  herself  and  the 
children  to  move  to  San  Bruno — wherever  and  whatever  it  was — 
with  alacrity.  Rudy  was  to  have  an  office  there,  with  Nels 
Pitcher,  as  agents  for  a  San  Francisco  real  estate  firm,  and  he 
wrote  Nelly  that  he  had  rented  a  dandy  house. 

Full  of  hope  she  dressed  the  children  for  the  actual  moving, 

389 


390    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

jamming  her  trunks  at  the  last  minute  with  rubbish  that  they 
"might  as  well  have."  A  load  of  furniture  had  preceded  her: 
the  rest  was  sold  where  it  stood.  Nelly  was  exhausted,  and  in  a 
perspiration,  by  the  time  Hildegarde,  Clifford,  Lloyd,  and  the 
heavy,  drowsy  baby  had  been  forced  into  best  clothes  that  were 
too  tight  for  them,  and  lifted  into  the  train.  Hildegarde  was 
six  now,  Clifford  five,  Lloyd  three,  and  the  baby  still  nursing  at 
ten  months.  It  was  a  sharp  winter  day,  sunshiny  and  bleak; 
the  conductor  was  unpleasant  about  the  one  ticket  upon  which 
the  mother  and  four  babies  were  travelling.  Nelly  answered 
him  angrily,  and  Hildegarde  shrank  nervously  in  her  seat. 
Everyone  was  mean  to  ladies  that  had  children  with  them, 
Hildegarde  thought. 

From  the  San  Bruno  station  they  walked  four  blocks;  the 
children  were  smeared  with  bananas  and  molasses  cookies  now; 
they  were  all  bewildered  with  sleepiness  from  the  hot  train. 
Nelly,  dragging  her  telescope  basket,  looking  anxiously  about 
for  Rudy,  stopped,  with  little  Stuart  balanced  on  her  hip,  and 
took  out  his  telegram.     Had  she  made  some  mistake? 

At  that  instant  he  came  running  up;  business — the  eternally 
adequate  excuse — had  delayed  him.  He  shouldered  Stuart, 
took  the  basket.  Someone  ought  to  have  given  her  a  lift! — he 
said.  But  they  were  almost  there  now — there,  that  was  the 
house! 

Nelly  had  not  seen  the  new  house  until  they  arrived  there, 
tired  and  dirty  and  hungry.  It  was  a  stark,  bare  place,  stand- 
ing harshly  against  the  sunset,  a  tall,  narrow,  dirty-white  house, 
with  a  flimsy  foundation  fenced  with  crossed  laths,  narrow  steep 
steps  to  the  parlor  floor,  and  three  barren  bedrooms  still  higher 
up.  It  had  no  grace  of  line  or  proportion,  everything  about  it 
was  as  ugly  and  cheap  and  as  the  economy  of  the  German  but- 
cher who  built  it  with  his  own  hands  could  devise. 

About  it  stood  the  straggling  settlement;  it  was  hardly  a 
village.  There  were  no  trees,  and  the  gardens  were  principally 
confined  to  tin  pots  on  window-sills  with  corn  and  tomato 
labels  still  adhering  to  them.  The  houses  were  set  at  all  angles 
on  the  muddy  dipping  roads,  here  a  bit  of  tin-patched  fencing 
staggered  into  a  newly  dug  vegetable  patch;  this  front  doorway 
faced  the  primitive  sanitary  arrangements  of  that  drear  cottage, 
this  tangle  of  rusting  and  fallen  wires  served  as  a  barrier  for  a 
bleating  goat. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    391 

The  unfenced  ground  about  the  various  buildings  was  strewn 
with  all  sorts  of  rubbish  and  filth.  Nelly's  nose  discovered  an 
ash  dump  before  her  eyes  did;  the  unmistakable  acrid  smell 
floated  toward  her  as  she  trailed  her  family  to  the  back  door, 
flung  off  little  wraps  and  hats,  and  cut  bread  for  the  first  meal. 
It  was  fresh  "  bakers'"  bread,  a  great  treat  to  farm  children,  and 
there  was  milk,  and  Rudy  struggled  with  the  fire  so  that  coffee 
and  a  steak  might  follow. 

But  long  before  Nelly,  with  the  whining  baby  at  her  breast, 
was  discussing  her  first  hot  and  heartening  cup,  Hildegarde, 
Clifford,  and  Lloyd  were  sound  asleep  on  a  mattress  in  what 
would  be  the  dining  room  when  the  furniture  was  properly  dis- 
tributed; a  dirty,  weary,  sour,  and  odorous  heap  of  delicate 
human  flesh  and  blood,  worn  out  with  all  the  excitement  and 
novelty  of  the  great  day. 

"The  poor  little  things,"  Nelly  yawned,  stupid  with  weariness 
and  food,  "they  haven't  any  sheets  to-night.  To-morrow  I'll 
open  some  of  the  boxes;  though  I  may  have  to  wash  before  we 
can  use  'em!  God  knows  when  we  bought  our  last  sheets! 
Are  you  going  to  be  a  good  feller  to-night  ?"  she  added,  to  the 
red-eyed,  poor  little  baby.  "You'll  kill  yourself,"  she  added, 
gratefully,  as  Rudy,  who  had  finished  his  meal,  began  a  vigor- 
ous shifting  and  unpacking  over  his  cigar. 

"You  bet  your  life  he's  going  to  sleep!"  Rudy  said  good- 
naturedly,  of  little  Stuart.  He  showed  Nelly  a  now  familiar 
bottle  of  soothing-syrup,  one  of  the  real  blessings  of  their  lives. 
All  the  young  mothers  that  Nelly  knew  agreed  that  the  baby  got 
restful  sleep  enough  to  more  than  offset  any  harmful  effects  of 
the  drugging,  and  some,  like  Nelly  herself,  could  point  to  children 
as  hardy  and  well  as  Hildegarde,  as  examples  of  the  benefit  of  the 
system.  By  this  time  the  syrup  was  quite  a  matter  of  course  in 
Nelly's  nursery,  and  Stuart,  the  most  frail  and  fretful  of  all  her 
babies,  was  dosed  several  times  a  day. 

"Lord,  I  like  this!"  Rudy  added  presently,  working  away 
splendidly.  He  laid  split  boxes  beside  the  rusty  stove  for  her 
breakfast  fire,  came  and  went  with  bedding  and  plates,  and 
even  set  up  one  bed.  Nelly  sat  with  the  baby,  cramped  and 
stiff  and  blessedly  warmed  and  fed,  watching  him. 

"Well,  we're  in!"  she  said,  with  a  great  yawn.  "It  seems 
three  days  since  I  got  up  in  the  dark  at  the  ranch!  No  more 
filling  lamps!"     And  she  looked  gratefully  at  the  hissing  gas. 


392    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Don't  bother  any  more,  Rudy,  I'll  fly  round  and  get  this  all 
straightened  out  to-morrow!     Lord,  I  could  sleep  right  here!" 

"You  come  along  and  sleep  in  your  own  comfortable  bed," 
he  said,  with  kindly  authority.  Settling  the  baby  in  the  box 
that  was  his  temporary  crib  and  pulling  off"  her  clothes  fully 
awakened  Nelly,  and  she  crept  into  bed  chilly  and  weary  and 
glad  to  get  warm.  Rudy  was  loving,  cradled  her  head  in  his 
arm  and  kissed  her  hair.  He  asked  her  if  she  knew  how  much 
he  loved  her,  but  Nelly  was  honestly  too  warm  and  sleepy  to 
answer  coherently,  and  after  a  few  more  murmured  affectionate 
questions,  Rudy  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep. 

Getting  settled  the  next  day  was  not  a  serious  matter.  The 
great  drawback  was  that  the  china  was  so  chipped  and  mis- 
matched, the  children's  clothes  so  shrunken  and  discoloured 
with  washing,  so  torn  and  worn  and  patched  and  buttonless, 
that  Nelly's  great  pile  for  mending,altering,and  cleaning  eclipsed 
in  size  the  modest  heap  that  was  ready  to  put  away.  Every- 
thing looked  much  shabbier  and  uglier  in  this  strange  environ- 
ment than  it  had  looked  at  the  smoke-dimmed  ranch-house,  and 
there  was  little  money  to  make  a  fresh,  clean  start. 

Still,  the  new  life  had  great  compensations,  gas  and  water 
and  the  blessed  nearness  to  the  grocery.  Even  Cliffy  could  be 
sent  with  a  nickel  for  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  Hildegarde  was  quite 
a  clever  little  buyer  of  meat  and  potatoes.  Then  there  were 
neighbours,  too,  other  overworked,  overburdened  women,  who 
sat  on  steps  and  hung  on  fences,  and  discussed  with  Nelly 
their  husbands,  their  poverty,  and  their  children.  Nelly  looked 
down  upon  them  all,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  they  entertained 
her,  and  the  tragedies  and  comedies  of  their  lives  made  her  own 
days  shorter  and  pleasanter. 

Her  blonde,  fair-skinned  children  ran  wild,  poking  like  a  little 
troop  of  foxes  into  holes  and  corners,  swinging  on  gates,  eating 
everything  that  was,  or  ever  had  been,  food,  shouting,  fighting, 
screaming,  and  crying.  She  told  Rudy  that  it  was  only  for 
awhile,  soon  they  would  be  in  the  city,  and  maybe  have  a  girl, 
by  which  Nelly  meant  a  maid,  and  put  the  oldest  two  children 
into  school. 

They  were  dirty,  what  was  the  use  of  cleaning  them  ?  Ten 
minutes  in  this  place  would  have  them  filthy  again,  Nelly  rea- 
soned. They  had  cookies  from  paper  bags,  apples  in  their 
hands,  bread  and  sugar  to  carry  away.     What  was  the  use  of 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    393 

making  a  fuss  setting  the  table,  when  it  had  to  be  undone,  and 
done  again,  in  so  short  a  time!  Nelly  would  wipe  her  sons' 
sore  little  noses  on  her  limp  checked  apron,  the  children  looking 
at  her  with  tearful  but  affectionate  eyes. 

But  now  and  then  she  gave  them  all  a  real  treat:  had  chicken 
and  talked  about  it  for  days  beforehand,  and  had  honey,  or  cake, 
or  doughnuts,  and  made  Hildegarde  clean  the  boys  for  the  meal. 
They  had  to  remember  that  they  came  of  respectable  people, 
Nelly  would  say.  Gracious,  what  would  Grandma  Crabtree 
say  to  this  gipsy  way  of  living!  And  Nelly  would  wash  the  boys' 
white  coats,  and  force  upon  the  thick  gold  of  Hildegarde's  lovely 
little  head  the  baby  cap  that  was  now  too  small  for  her,  and  all 
the  Sessions  would  walk  forth  in  the  summer  Sunday  afternoon, 
Rrudy  proudly  carrying  the  baby,  whose  mottled  unhappy  little 
face  was  entirely  eclipsed  by  a  "  French  "  bonnet,  while  Nelly  and 
the  other  children  walked  decorously  beside  him.  They  would 
walk  to  Papa's  office,  and  perhaps  hear  him  talk  readily  and  en- 
couragingly to  some  timid  prospective  home  buyer,  with  a  ner- 
vous, apprehensive  woman  holding  him  back  from  reckless 
decision. 

These  days  were  the  bright  side  of  life.  There  were  other 
days,  when  sad  and  noisy  scenes  darkened  the  kitchen.  Papa 
was  queer,  the  children  knew,  and  he  wouldn't  give  Mama  any 
money.  He  had  to  lie  down  because  his  poor  head  was  so  sick, 
and  his  condition  produced  a  reflective  crossness  and  sharpness 
in  Mama.  Also  when  he  stayed  away  on  Saturday  nights  she 
was  unreasonable  and  puzzling  in  her  conduct,  sitting  moodily 
at  the  kitchen  door,  murmuring  in  undertones  to  Mrs.  Hutch- 
ings  or  Mrs.  Beebe,  angrily  indifferent  to  Hildegarde's  report 
that  the  baby  was  awake,  or  to  the  fact  that  the  tired  heavy- 
headed  little  boys  were  stickily  asleep  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

"Don't  yell  at  Mama  that  way!"  Nelly  would  scream  at  the 
little  monitor,  "my  gracious,  I  can  hear  you!" 

But  if  Hildegarde  went  back,  and  began  a  futile  tugging  at 
the  tumbled  forms  of  her  little  brothers,  Nelly  was  apt  to  follow 
and  would  call  the  child  Mama's  little  comfort  as  she  lighted  the 
gas,  and  opened,  or  perhaps  made,  the  beds. 

Half-cooked  makeshift  meals,  dirty  rooms,  souring  food  in 
spattered  pans  or  smoky  skillets,  tight  dresses  that  scratched 
her,  shapeless  shoes  frayed  in  the  toes,  these  were  Hildegarde's 
first  impressions  of  life.     Her  mother  might  tell  her  of  a  more 


394    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

glorious  past,  and  her  father  prophesy  a  different  future,  but 
this  was  the  only  reality  she  knew. 

Hildegarde  was  a  beautiful  child,  with  a  creamy  colourless  skin, 
and  a  straight  superb  mop  of  tawny  hair,  heavy  and  bright. 
There  was  a  refined  charm  about  her  full,  cleft  chin,  an  aristo- 
cratic fineness  in  the  pencilled  thick  brows  and  heavy  curled 
lashes,  and  a  noble  dignity  about  the  set  of  the  little  head,  even 
when  the  drab  apron  was  dirty  and  full  of  holes,  and  the  red 
lips  were  set  in  a  frame  of  jelly  and  crumbs  and  breakfast  egg. 
She  was  not  only  far  lovelier  than  her  mother  had  ever  been, 
but  there  was  a  character  and  a  poise  about  her,  even  in  baby- 
hood, that  poor  Nelly  had  never  possessed. 

She  was  a  bad  child,  in  certain  moods  a  "holy  terror,"  a 
"case,"  the  neighbours  said.  She  could  be  so  bold,  so  "sassy," 
that  better  little  girls  looked  at  her  aghast.  At  home  she  helped 
her  mother,  wiped  dishes,  ran  errands,  and  saw  that  the  little 
boys  had  their  share  of  doughnuts  or  coffee  cake.  Abroad  she 
thieved,  lied,  raided,  defied  law  and  order,  wriggled  her  ema- 
ciated little  form  through  fences  and  cellar  windows,  learned 
"swearwords"  from  bad  boys,  threw  rocks  at  policemen's  backs, 
and  led  a  gang  of  rebels  only  a  little  less  daring  than  herself. 
Hunger  and  need  were  stern  teachers.  Hildegarde  learned 
to  extract  food  from  apparently  hopeless  situations,  and  her 
shrill  "Give  us  a  watermelon,  Mister!"  "Give  us  an  apple, 
Mister!"  "Give  us  a  cooky,  lady!"  were  familiar  to  the  fruit 
peddlers  and  the  bakers'  vans  before  she  had  lived  six  months  in 
San  Bruno. 

Nelly  only  vaguely  suspected  her  child's  reputation.  She  was 
the  sort  of  woman  who  loves  her  sons  best,  and  imposes  upon 
her  daughters,  but  she  was  really  grateful  to  the  child  for  all  the 
help  she  gave. 

"Don't  be  bold,  Hildegarde,  remember  you  are  a  little  lady," 
she  would  occasionally  say,  and  the  sky-blue  eyes  would  look 
at  her,  from  under  the  royal  mane,  and  the  scarlet  lips  stop 
chewing  long  enough  for  Hildegarde  to  say,  "I  ain't  bold, 
Mama." 

"Who  says  she's  bold?"  Rudy  might  demand  belligerently, 
if  he  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen  brooding  over  some  situation 
that  existed  only  in  his  own  befuddled  brain.  "She's  a  good 
girl — she's  Papa's  girl,  that's  what  she  is!" 

Hildegarde  would  escape  from  his  sour  and  beery  kiss,  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    395 

rough  touch  of  his  unshaved  chin,  out  into  the  kingdom  of  the 
yard  again. 

She  led  her  clan  into  every  danger,  and  the  clan  followed 
shouting  and  admiring.  A  fire-wagon  could  not  stop  in  that 
neighbourhood  without  risking  the  investigation  of  a  swarm 
of  tatterdemalion  children.  They  gathered  about  "drunks" 
who  spat  and  muttered  in  the  empty  lots;  they  surged  into  the 
trenches  intended  for  sewers  or  water-pipes;  they  threw  rocks, 
walked  tracks  and  fence  rails,  tied  ropes,  chased  runaways, 
dodged  about  fires,  manufactured  stilts  and  hoops,  squabbled 
over  buttons  and  marbles. 

"My  mama  wants  a  bag  of  soda  crackers  and  please  to  put  it 
in  the  book!"  Hildegarde's  ready  little  voice  would  assure  the 
suspicious  grocer.  Nelly  had  to  tell  him  not  to  give  the  child 
any  credit  unless  she  brought  a  note.  "No,  Mis'  Beebe,  we 
haven't  seen  your  tomatoes  anywhere!"  the  child  wx>uld  say 
innocently,  with  perhaps  two  of  the  lost  tomatoes  in  her  little 
stomach  at  the  moment.  In  any  defeat  she  would  mount  a 
shed  or  windmill  and  repay  her  foes  with  insulting  singsong. 
"Mary  Curry,  Mary  Curry!  Awful  fat  and  eats  in  a  hurry!" 
she  would  shrill.  Or  she  would  follow  a  harmless  Chinese 
landryman  with  shrieks  of  "Chinee-mock-a-high-lo!"  which  was 
supposedly  an  oriental  curse. 

Her  gang  had  a  score  of  these  slogans.  "Mina,  mina,  the 
laughing  hyena ! "  "  Georgie  Hersey,  goes  out  with  his  nursey ! " 
"Willy  Shedd,  wet-the-bed ! "  were  some  of  them.  Truth  need 
play  no  part  in  the  rhymes  that  Hildegarde  improvised,  and  her 
friends  chanted,  to  the  confusion  of  the  enemy. 

When  the  season  of  heavy  rains  came,  the  dirt  roads  all  about 
the  house  were  turned  into  pools,  and  in  these  pools  the  children 
waded  and  splashed,  floated  crazy  rafts,  dug  ditches  and  dams, 
and  slopped  contentedly  for  days  at  a  time.  Nelly's  children 
always  had  nose  colds  from  November  to  March,  but  nothing 
serious  ever  seemed  to  happen  to  them.  In  the  spring,  the  little 
girls  borrowed  old  dresses,  and  trailed  about  playing  lady 
i  tirelessly,  and  often  their  conversation  made  the  women  look 
astonished  at  each  other.  Where  did  the  little  things  pick  it 
up?  Nelly  and  Rudy  were  sometimes  astonished  at  Hilde- 
garde's  precocity  and  shrewdness,  but  the  child  amused  them 
more  than  she  shocked  them. 

When  they  had  been  in  San  Bruno  some  ten  weeks,  Nelly 


396    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

wrote  her  mother,  and  in  March  Lucy  duly  came  down  to  see 
her  grandchildren.  Nelly  had  a  Japanese  boy  for  the  day, 
for  seventy-five  cents,  and  the  children  were  clean.  About  the 
corners  of  the  rooms  odd  heaps  of  dirty  clothing  and  broken  toys 
still  lingered,  Lucy  noted,  if  Nelly  did  not,  and  that  if  Hilde- 
garde's  apron  was  a  dazzling  new  unwashed  gingham,  Hilde- 
garde's  visible  underwear  was  a  soggy  slate-gray.  Nelly  made 
no  apologies,  however,  not  because  she  was  proud,  but  because 
she  was  made  blind  to  all  this  by  long  association. 

The  children  fought  and  skirmished  for  the  unwonted  dainties, 
for  banana  layer-cake  and  fried  potatoes  and  canned  corn.  The 
house  was  hot,  on  a  balmy,  unseasonable  March  day,  flies 
swarmed  in  droves,  sunshine  streamed  upon  disorder,  spots,  and 
sticky  plates. 

But  out  of  doors  it  was  spring.  Nelly's  twisted  plum  tree 
was  white  with  sweet  bloom,  grass  was  high  in  the  littered  back 
yard,  and  had  washed  like  a  wave  against  the  fences.  Every- 
where was  openness,  space,  drying  roads,  and  crowing  cocks;  the 
afternoon  shadows  were  soft  and  long. 

Lucy  and  Nelly  sat  on  the  shady  front  steps,  with  the  stag- 
gering Stuart,  still  pinched  and  fretful,  with  sore  red  eyes,  at 
their  feet. 

"And  Alice  expects?"  Nelly  mused.  "I'll  bet  she  has  it 
easy!" 

"Oh,  he  does  everything  for  her!" 

"Got  a  girl  now?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  same  one — Anna.  Unpleasant  sort  of  wo- 
man," Lucy  frowned.  "But  I  wish  you  could  see  her  house," 
she  resumed,  "set  tubs,  and  telephone,  and  gas-stove — every- 
thing!" 

"Do  you  see  her  much,  Mama?" 

Lucy  sniffed. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  they're  not  the  old-fashioned  kind  that  de- 
pends upon  elders  for  anything!" 

Nelly  looked  at  her  shrewdly. 

"You  don't  like  Frank?"  she  surmised. 

" Certainly  I  like  Frank!"  Lucy  answered,  annoyed.     "He's 
a  good  man,  with  a  fine  standing  in  the  community,  why  should- 
n't I  like  him?     I  used  to  say  to  Alice,   'Just  be  sure,  dear. 
If  you're  sure  you  love  him,  then  I'm  satisfied!'" 
And  she  was  crazy  about  him?"  Nelly  pursued. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    397 

"Well,"  Lucy  protested,  irritated,  "she  married  him!  Alice 
is  old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind,  I  should  hope!" 

"I've  only  seen  her  once,  you  know,"  Nelly  said.  "And  she 
didn't  seem — well,  happy.     She  didn't  seem  like  herself!" 

"I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't,"  Lucy  answered,  unsym- 
pathetically.  "Frank's  a  determined  sort  of  man,  and  I  think 
he's  jealous — well,  that's  all  right,  if  he  takes  good  care  of  her 
and  loves  her!  He  may  be  rude  to  me,  J  don't  care.  I  didn't 
marry  him.     It  entirely " 

"You  advised  her  not  to  marry  him,  didn't  you,  Mama?  A 
man  so  much  older,  and  all  that?" 

"My  goodness,  Nelly,  how  foolishly  you  talk!"  Lucy  cried 
vexedly.  "Why  should  I  advise  her  against  it!  Vicky  marries 
a  country  boy  without  a  penny,  and  you  married  Rudy,  and  I 
don't  see  that  it's  gotten  you  very  far.  Frank  Babcock  has 
money,  he  has  a  fine  house,  Alice  has  a  servant — I  declare  it 

makes  me  wild  to  have  everyone "     She  stopped  short, 

exasperated. 

"Does  everyone  think  it's  queer?"  Nelly  asked,  innocently, 
as  her  mother  paused. 

"I  don't  know  or  care  what  everyone  thinks!"  Lucy  said 
shortly. 

Nelly  was  surprised.  But  she  was  accustomed  to  rather  odd 
moods  in  Mama,  and  she  presently  opened  a  fresh  subject. 

"Vicky.     Are  they  so  poor?     Has  Aunt  May  forgiven  her?" 

"Oh,  yes.  She  had  to,  I  guess.  We  were  all  over  there  on 
Christmas  night;  Vick  had  on  her  old  red  dress,  but  she  looked 
handsome,  and  she  just  carried  everything  along  the  way  she 
always  does,  laughing  and  carrying-on!" 

"But  Mama — but  Mama — "  Nelly  questioned  eagerly, 
"tell  me  about  them!  Take  that  out  of  your  mouth,  Hilda," 
she  added  mildly,  immediately  screaming,  "take  that  out  of  your 
mouth,  when  Mama  tells  you  to!  What  on  earth  are  they  living 
on?"  she  questioned,  in  her  natural  voice. 

"Well,  Davy's  working  with  some  Doctor  Boone,  there  in 
Napa — and  I  guess  Vick  works  pretty  hard.  She  cooks,  I  know, 
and  there  are  chickens,  and  his  mother  isn't  very  strong.  But 
they  seem  happy  enough;  she  kind  of  carries  things  before  her, 
the  way  she  always  does!  Davy  just  seems  crazy  about  her,  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  cracked!" 

"And  Vicky  cooks  and  looks  after  chickens,  in  Napa,"  Nelly 


398    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

mused,  smiling  in  some  obscure  satisfaction.  "How's  Papa?" 
she  asked. 

Lucy  sighed  again. 

"He  was  down  Los  Angeles  way,"  she  said.  "He  wrote  me 
that  he  had  a  job,  and  his  cough  was  better,  and  some  day  he 
hoped  to  send  for  me;  there  was  twenty  dollars  in  the  letter.  It 
came  in  handy,  too,  because  I  was  having  a  nerve  killed!" 

" Poor  Mama!"  Nelly  sighed.  "You  have  certainly  had  your 
share!" 

"Well,"  Lucy  agreed  thoughtfully,  "when  I  think  of  the  fact 
that  I  am  naturally  systematic,  naturally  a  manager,  I  wonder 
where  I'd  be  if  I  was  like  most  women!" 

"Oh,  you'd  be  in  the  poor-house,  Mama!  Imagine  where 
poor  Papa  would  have  been  without  you!" 

"I  know,"  Lucy  mused.  "But  imagine  where  /  would  have 
been  with  half  a  chance!"  she  countered. 

"It  seems  such  a  shame  that  you  never  had  it,  Mama,"  Nelly 
said  loyally.     "  Shall  you  stay  on  with  Aunt  Fanny  ? " 

"Not  one  minute  after  I  can  get  a  position  that  pays,"  Lucy 
returned  firmly.  "No,  I  shan't  do  that.  Maggie's  married, 
of  course,  but  Fan  has  a  Japanese  boy  who  comes  in  after  school. 
I  went  to  see  a  man  about  handling  an  agency  for  the  Water- 
proof Shoepolish  people,"  she  added.  "Nothing  now.  'But 
oh,  Mrs.  Crabtree,'  he  said  to  me,  'if  I  could  get  a  lady,  like  your- 
self, to  give  little  talks  about  it,  up  and  down  the  state!'  'Oh, 
come,'  I  said,  T'm  not  asking  for  anything  special — '  'No,' 
he  said,  'but  I  may  be  in  a  position  very  soon  to  make  you  a 
special  ofFer."' 

"Mama,  what's  Georgie  doing?"  Nelly,  who  was  not  listening, 
asked  suddenly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Lucy  said  disgustedly.  "He  sent  me 
twenty-five  dollars  for  Christmas,  and  ten  for  Easter.  I 
guess  he's  making  money  enough.  But  I  don't  like  what  I  hear 
of  these  Tates,  this  man  he  boards  with.  There's  a  niece,  or  a 
queer  little  thing  they've  adopted — I  don't  know  exactly  what 
she  is  to  them,  and  when  Georgie  was  up  for  Christmas  he 
couldn't  talk  of  any  one  else  than  this  Tessy  or  Jessy  or  some 
such  name.  His  hands  looked  terrible;  he's  lost  the  first  joint  of 
his  middle-finger,  you  know.  I'm  going  down  there  some  day 
this  summer,  and  find  out  for  myself  just  what's  going  on.  I 
don't  propose  to  have  Georgie  marry  any  little  foundling  from 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    399 

Santa  Clara,  or  settle  down  there  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  I 
told  him  so!" 

"Was  he  mad,  Mama?" 

"Oh,  you  know  Georgie.  His  face  got  red.  Lou  was  there 
and  she  began  to  laugh,  and  she  said,  'You've  got  a  better  job 
than  mine,  anyway,  Georgie!'  I  didn't  have  a  minute  with  him 
alone,  we  were  over  at  Aunt  May's " 

"Lou  lives  with  Bertie?"  Nelly  asked,  diverted. 

"Poor  thing,  she  has  to  live  somewhere.  Terrible  thing — 
that  Eastern  man!" 

"Howard  Palmer,"  Nelly  supplied  with  relish,  wiping  Lloyd's 
sore  little  nose  firmly.  "Tootle-tootle-tootle-tootle!"  she  said 
loudly,  over  the  child's  protestant  whimper.  "It  must  be  awful 
for  Lou,  I  suppose  she's  nothing  but  a  servant  in  Bertie's  house. 
Give  me  that  button,  Cliffy,"  she  added  in  a  low  tone,  "give 
Mama  that  button.  Pick  it  up,  Hilda.  Give  it  to  Hilda, 
Cliffy.     Cliffy " 

She  caught  the  five-year-old  boy  dexterously,  and  manipu- 
lated him  and  his  sodden  little  dirty  garments  upon  her  knee 
with  a  practised  hand.  Lucy  tried  to  look  blank  as  Cliffy's 
shrieks  and  Nelly's  violent  voice  rose  together. 

"You  naughty — naughty — boy!"  Nelly  said,  her  face  grow- 
ing red,  her  descending  hand  punctuating  her  words.  "You  do 
what  Mama  tells  you — now!  Now  howl!"  Nelly  panted, 
jerking  him  to  the  floor.  "Scream,  yell  all  you  want  to!  Next 
time  you'll  get  worse!  Take  him  out,  Hilda.  It  seems  a  funny 
life  for  Lou,"  Nelly  added,  in  a  normal  tone  of  voice,  her  high 
colour  receding  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 

"She  looks  terribly  pulled  down,  poor  girl,"  Lucy  sighed. 
"May  and  Tina  run  the  San  Rafael  house,"  she  added,  "and 
Bobo's  there." 

;  " Sit  quiet  and  get  your  breath,  Nelly!  I  hate  to  see  you  get- 
ting all  pulled  down,  you  don't  look  a  bit  well!  I  did  hope 
you  were  going  to  marry  a  good  manager — Rudy  is  3.  much 
smarter  business  man  than  Papa,"  Lucy  hastily  interpolated, 
"but  then,  of  course,  the  drink  comes  in! — that's  life,  after  all. 
Well,  I've  got  to  get  back  to  town — Fanny  gets  all  worked  up  if 
she's  alone  too  long.  She  says  that  when  your  grandfather  dies, 
she's  got  to  let  that  house  go — but  I  guess  that's  just  talk.  I 
guess  Fanny's  pretty  well  fixed.     How's  Rudy?" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  asked  it;  perhaps  poor  Nelly's 


4oo    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

forlorn  and  shabby  surroundings  were  sufficient  indication  of 
Rudy's  activities.  Nelly  was  holding  the  baby  on  her  shoulder, 
now;  little  Stuart  was  a  sticky  mass  of  dirt,  food,  and  sodden 
clothing;  he  was  weeping. 

"Oh,  pretty  well,',  Nelly  said  indifferently.  "Well  enough  to 
lose  money,  shooting  craps  last  night — it  made  me  crazy!"  she 
added  with  a  laugh.  "  I  guess  men  have  it  pretty  easy — if  things 
go  wrong  at  home  they  can  walk  right  out.  Hush  up,  Baby!" 
she  said,  not  unkindly,  to  the  fretting  child.  "  Hilda,  run  get 
the  baby's  pacifier!  Lloyd,  you  and  Cliffy  walk  to  the  gate 
with  Grandma.  Hilda's  got  as  much  sense  as  a  woman,"  she 
added,  walking  to  the  gate  herself  with  her  mother,  as  Hilde- 
garde  took  her  brother  expertly  into  her  thin  little  arms.  "I 
don't  know  what  I'd  do  without  her.  Rudy  gets  rough  with 
her  sometimes — he  does  with  all  of  them — and  it's  usually  poor 
Hilda  that  gets  whipped."  Nelly  kissed  her  mother  rather 
apathetically;  she  had  been  feeling  wretched  of  late,  and  this 
long,  enervating  hot  day  had  tired  her.  She  had  been  up  at 
six,  cooking  and  cleaning  and  straightening,  and  had  been  tired 
enough  to  drop  at  ten  o'clock.  Nelly  was  beginniag  to  think 
her  stomach  chronically  troublesome:  she  thought  now  that  her 
lunch  had  not  agreed  with  her. 

An  ancient  fear  was  heavy  upon  her  as  she  went  slowly  back 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FANNY  was  well  again,  and  almost  offensively  brisk  and 
capable  once  more.  She  began  to  talk,  in  May,  of 
spring  cleaning,  and  it  was  obvious,  to  Lucy,  that  it  was 
her  particular  room  that  was  destined  for  the  first  onslaught. 
Lucy  ignored  the  matter  as  long  as  she  decently  could,  and 
longer,  but  conversations  between  the  sisters-in-law  became 
strained,  and  with  every  warm,  silent  morning,  and  every  windy, 
;  gritty  afternoon,  Lucy  resolved  afresh  that  she  must  make 
some  move. 

Harry  was  sending  her  a  little  money  now,  and  she  carefully 
hoarded  the  tens  and  twenties,  without  ever  mentioning  them  to 
Fanny.     She    estimated    the    possibilities.     To    go    to    Nelly 
i  was  out  of  the  question;  she  would  be  simply  an  unpaid  servant 
in  that  house.     Alice — Lucy's  pride  was  up  in  arms  where  Alice 
was  concerned.     She  could  take  no  favours  there.     Frank  and 
his  wife  lived  a  full  and  prosperous  life  with  no  reference  to  her. 
Alice  entertained  her,  when  she  called,  in  the  parlour,  that  cor- 
;  rect,  carpeted  parlour  where  patients  came  from  two  to  four 
:  and  seven  to  eight,  and  where  the  shutters  were  drawn  against 
the  westering  sun.     The  upright  piano,  the  oblong  cherry  table, 
I  the   lamp   with   morning-glories   painted   on   its   china   shade, 
:  the  books  and  the  stuffed  chairs,  were  always  speckless  and  in 
i  place.     There  was  an  artificial  palm  in  the  bay-window,  its  too- 
green  leaves  showing  through  fresh,  clean,  evenly  looped  lace 
|  curtains,  from  the  street. 

"Mama,  you  look  so  well,"  Alice  always  said. 
"I  don't  know  why.     Fanny  and  I  are  going  all  the  time.'* 
"Frank  and  I  saw  Fanny  and  Uncle  Bob  downtown  the  other 
night/' 

"Yes.     They  said  they  saw  you." 
"Is  he  here  now?" 
"No.     He's  gone  back." 

"He's  doing  pretty  well  in  Sacramento,  isn't  he?" 

401 


4o2    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Oh,  I  guess  he's  coining  money." 

A  silence.     Then  Lucy  might  say: 

"Do  you  see  the  girls  from  the  hospital  much?" 

"Oh,  never!  Except  that  I  had  Mabel  and  Seppie  here  when 
I  was  first  married." 

"Do  you  feel  pretty  well?" 

"Oh,  finely,  thank  you,  Mama!" 

Lucy  used  to  leave  her  daughter  with  profound  dissatisfaction 
in  her  heart;  it  was  hard  exactly  to  analyze  it,  but  it  was  always 
there. 

She  never  suspected  that  Alice  used  to  come  to  the  clean 
bay-window,  and  look  down  through  the  fresh,  looped  curtains 
at  her  mother's  sturdy  figure  going  down  the  dirty  Mission 
Street,  with  a  feeling  almost  as  troubled  as  Lucy's  own. 

Frank  didn't  like  Mama,  that  was  the  trouble.  He  had 
said  so,  on  that  dreadful,  amazing  day  when  Alice  had  been  so 
shaken  as  to  cry,  right  on  the  Haight  Street  car;  he  had  said  so 
many  times  since.  He  wanted  Alice  always  to  be  polite  to  her 
mother — Frank  was  so  just.  But  he  had  said,  and  she  believed 
him,  that  it  would  only  distress  her  to  have  her  mother  lunching 
with  her,  getting  the  habit  of  running  in,  and  that  when  the  baby 
came  he  positively  would  not  have  her  mother  interfering. 

"I  make  every  possible  allowance!"  Frank  had  said.  "But 
at  that  time  my  wish  is  law." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Frank!  And  I'm  sure  Mama  wouldn't  want  to 
interfere." 

"It's  entirely  up  to  you,"  he  had  said.  "Much  better  a 
hint  from  you  than  a  scene  with  me!" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!"  she  had  agreed  thankfully.  Frank  was 
not  too  happy  about  the  prospect,  she  knew.  Alice  told  herself 
sensibly  that  it  was  not,  of  course,  as  if  it  were  his  first  child. 

This  was  being  married,  she  reflected  philosophically.  One 
gave  so  much,  one  received  so  much  more.  She  received  all  the 
dignity  of  Frank's  name  and  position,  the  pleasure  of  being  mis- 
tress of  this  house,  of  driving,  dining  downtown,  going  to  lec- 
tures and  concerts  with  Frank.  She  had  plenty  of  pocket 
money;  no  grievances,  really,  unless  this  rather  blank  feeling  of 
not  belonging  to  herself,  of  not  being  herself,  was  a  grievance, 
There  were  days  when  the  clean,  dark,  orderly  rooms,  and  the 
creaking  of  patients'  feet  into  Frank's  office,  and  the  sudden 
clatter  and  stop  of  his  horse's  feet,  when  he  came  home  for  lunch, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    403 

seemed  to  reach  her  senses  through  a  heavy  veil  of  fogginess 
and  dullness.  There  was  a  dreamy  unreality,  a  baffling  evasive- 
ness, about  it  all.  Who  was  Alice  Babcock  any  way?  Where 
was  the  old,  giggling  Alice  who  had  said  her  prayers  so  faith- 
fully, and  played  Lotto  with  Papa  and  Georgie? 

"And  I  have  everything !"  she  would  remind  herself,  struck 
by  her  own  ingratitude.  "What  must  it  be  for  poor  Nelly,  or 
Vick — marrying  men  who  are  actually  poor!" 

One  day  she  had  a  letter  from  Vick.  It  was  a  balmy,  cloud- 
less May  day,  a  year  after  her  marriage.  Alice  had  walked  to 
market;  now  she  felt  heated  and  headachy.  She  went  up  to  her 
front  room,  and  sat  down,  panting,  with  Vicky's  letterin  her  hand. 

"Dearest  Alice,"  she  read.  "You  are  not  so  smart  with  your  September! 
I  have  an  engagement  in  December  just  as  important,  imagine — won't  they  be 
adorable  together.  You  must  have  a  boy  to  marry  my  daughter.  Davy  and 
I  are  terribly  happy  about  it.  I'm  writing  you  in  the  kitchen,  chaperoning  a 
pot-roast.  Davy's  mother  is  supposed  to  be  the  best  cook  in  town,  and  her 
popovers  never  pop,  and  mine  do,  so  you  may  imagine  the  sinful  pride  of  David 
Dudley,  M.D.  Davy  cut  a  leg  off  last  week — it  was  a  Chinaman's,  but  he  lived, 
so  score  one  for  Davy.  I  get  so  thrilled  over  cases,  don't  you?  Last  Sunday 
Mary  Dudley  and  I  saw  Davy  smile  at  someone  in  church,  and  we  whispered  to 
him  who  was  it?  He  said,  'That's  the  tongue  amputation!'  and  Mary  and  I 
laughed  so  we  had  to  go  out.  He  was  furious!  This  is  really  a  jay  place,  but 
I  like  it,  we  have  pretty  good  times.  Of  course  we  have  to  go  to  everything,  to 
show  our  public  spirit.     .     .     ." 

A  strange  expression  came  into  Alice's  madonna-like  face  as 
she  read  this  letter,  and  with  a  spasmodic  movement  of  her 
hands  she  destroyed  it.  She  put  it  into  her  scrapbasket,  but 
almost  immediately  took  it  out,  patched  it  laboriously  together, 
and  read  it  again.  About  an  hour  later,  she  suddenly  and  in- 
explicably began  to  cry. 

"Woo — hoo!"  It  was  Aunt  Fanny's  strident  voice,  echoing 
through  the  quiet  halls  of  the  San  Rafael  house.  Tina,  putting 
away  breakfast-cups  still  warm  from  the  dish-water,  sighed  and 
frowned  as  she  put  her  arms  behind  her  to  untie  her  kitchen 
apron.  This  meant  luncheon,  and  Tina  had  promised  to  run 
over  to  Grace's!  Mama  could  have  taken  care  of  Bobo  very 
comfortably;  but  it  was  too  much  to  expect  her  to  cook  for  Aunt 
Fanny. 

Tina  had  on  her  old  blue  dimity,  daintily  crisp  from  the  irons. 


4o4    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Her  fair,  lifeless  hair  was  arranged  in  the  matronly  braids  she 
and  Grace  had  afFected  years  ago;  they  were  meekly  wound 
about  Tina's  head,  and  framed  her  rather  full,  square  face.  She 
smiled  as  she  crossed  the  hall. 

"Well,  Aunt  Fanny!  Aren't  you  nice  to  do  this!  How's 
Grandpa?" 

"Whew — ee!"  gasped  Fanny,  returning  her  niece's  kiss,  her 
face  scarlet.  "Lawsy — it  was  warm  in  town,  but  nothing  like 
this!  Where's  Mama?  Old  aunt  going  to  be  in  the  way  for  a 
bite  of  lunch?" 

"In  the  way!"  Tina  echoed,  affectionately  reproachful.  She 
thought  that  she  could  send  Bobo  with  a  note  to  Grace  Yelland. 
May  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  cautiously;  peering  down 
sharply  through  her  glasses. 

"Oh,  Fan!"  she  breathed  in  relief,  descending.  She  wore  a 
scalloped  sacque,  but  Fanny  was  smart  in  one  of  the  new  shirt- 
waists that  had  been  so  quickly  adopted  by  women  everywhere. 
May  admired  this  garment  now.  "I  declare  it's  real  cute, 
Fan,"  she  said.  "Vicky  wrote  me  she  had  one.  The  cuffs  come 
off,  don't  they?" 

"The  cuffs  and  collar  come  off,"  Fanny  agreed.  "Well! 
How  are  you?     I  just  thought  I'd  come  over " 

"I'm  glad  you  did!"  May  said,  leading  the  way  into  the  cool 
dining  room,  where  they  sat  down.  "Bobo's  playing  round 
somewhere;  he  asked  me  for  a  nickel  for  a  ball  of  string.  My, 
isn't  it  hot?" 

She  looked  with  pathetic,  faded  eyes  at  her  sister.  May  was 
gray  now,  and  her  stout  figure  stuck  in  and  out  clumsily  at  hips 
and  bosom.  Her  recently  brushed  hair  was  damp  on  her  fore- 
head. 

"We  kind  of  thought  Lou  and  the  baby  might  run  up  to-day," 
she  said;  "Lola  isn't  well — it  would  be  terrible  if  anything  hap- 
pened to  her,  with  that  young  baby!  Lou  brought  her  up  last 
week;  she's  a  cute  little  thing — quite  dark,  you  know.  How's 
Pa?" 

"He  seemed  real  well  last  night,"  Fanny  answered,  unen- 
thusiastically. "Lucy  was  reading  to  him.  I  asked  him  some- 
thing about  the  business,  but  he  just  blinked  at  me.  I  believe," 
she  added,  beating  her  nose,  "sometimes  I  believe  he  knows  a 
lot  more  than  we  think.  He'll  go  down  to  the  Bank  alone.  And 
then  you'll  think  he's  dying,  all  of  a  sudden!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    405 

"It  would  almost  be  a  blessing "  May  murmured. 

"Oh,  it  would!"  Fanny  added,  decidedly. 

"Rob  was  in  last  week,  Sunday,  to  see  Bobo,"  May  further 
confided.  "Bobo  looked  nice;  he'd  been  to  church  with  Tina. 
Sometimes  I  think  Rob'll  have  us  all  out  of  here,  when  any- 
thing happens  to  Pa!"  she  faltered,  tears  suddenly  in  her 
eyes. 

"Looks  like  we'll  all  be  living  over  here,  at  this  rate!"  Fanny 
answered  bracingly.  "I  don't  know  what's  going  on,  at  the 
store.     Steve  say  anything  to  you  about  it?" 

"  I  know  he's  terribly  worried,"  May  said,  sighing.  "  It  seems 
so  quiet  now,"  she  went  on,  "with  just  Tina.  Vicky  gone 
and  Lou  with  Bertie,  and  Bertie — I  don't  see  him  hardly  ever, 
unless  they're  all  around — he  used  to  be  Mama's  boy,  you 
know " 

May  began  to  cry.  Fanny's  sharp  eyes  watered,  too,  and  she 
blew  her  nose. 

"  I  get  thinking  of  Esme,"  May  faltered.  "  It's  getting  round 
to  two  years.     .     .     ." 

"  I  declare  it  doesn't  look  as  if  the  next  year  was  going  to  be 
much  better,"  Fanny  said,  frankly  and  anxiously.  "I  went 
down  to  the  office  the  other  day,  I  don't  like  this  business  of  no 
dividends!  We've  always  had  dividends  in  August,  since  Aunt 
Jenny's  day " 

"Terrible  hard  times,  Fan!"  May  suggested,  in  Stephen's 
defence. 

"Oh,  hard  times — hard  times!  I've  heard  that  until  I'm 
sick  of  it!"  Fanny  ejaculated  scornfully.  "As  things  are  now, 
I've  a  good  mind  to  draw  my  money  out — sell  my  stock!" 

"Why  don't  you,  Fan?"  May  said  innocently,  thinking  only 
that  Fan  was  a  great  annoyance  to  Stephen,  and  an  interruption 
to  his  work  when  she  went  into  the  office.  Fanny  was  secretly 
disappointed;  she  had  hoped  to  cause  May  at  least  the  uneasi- 
ness that  this  same  suggestion  had  caused  Stephen  yesterday. 

"Well,  here's  the  boy  that  lost  his  tongue!"  she  said  to  Bobo, 
who  sidled  in  smiling  shyly.  "Gracious,  May,  don't  he  ever 
speak?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  he  chatters  all  the  time!"  Tina  assured  her,  gathering 
the  odorous  fringed  cloth  tablecover  in  a  careless  bunch,  and 
flinging  it  on  a  chair,  and  ballooning  a  worn  white  tablecloth 
over  the  bare  boards.     "Awful  the  way  flies  get  in  here!"  she 


4o6    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

said.  "Mama  tell  you  about  Vicky?  About  December.  Vicky's 
tickled  to  death!" 

"Well,  I  hope  Davy  Dudley's  tickled  enough  to  earn  some 
food  and  clothes  for  it!"  Fanny  said,  rattling  a  hard  finger  vio- 
lently in  her  own  ear. 

Tina  laughed  as  she  flung  a  handful  of  mixed  knives  and  forks 
on  the  table;  she  began  to  put  on  the  sugar-bowl  and  spoon  mug 
with  hard  bumps. 

"You  folks  aren't  going  to  get  much,"  she  prophesied.  "Bobo, 
be  Auntie  Tina's  darling,  and  run  over  to  Auntie  Gracie  with  this 
note.     We'll  wait  for  you.     I'll  cut  up  the  tomatoes,  Mama." 

"That's  a  good  girl,"  May  approved.  "I  don't  know  what 
I'll  do  when  somebody  steals  this  darling  from  me!"  she  said, 
tenderly. 

"  Know  anybody  who  wants  a  cook,  waitress,  and  chamber- 
maid ?"  Tina  laughed  hardily.  She  put  the  meal  on  all  at  once — 
salad,  tea,  cake,  sardines  in  the  neatly  opened  tin,  cornbread. 
"Whew — it's  hot!"  she  gasped,  the  last  one  to  sit  down.  "Use 
my  butter  plate,  Mama.  Poor  Grace,"  she  added,  to  her  aunt, 
"she  feels  the  heat  terribly.  Yes — "  she  nodded,  to  Fanny's 
questioning  look.  "Vera's  only  three,  and  Baby  isn't  walking 
yet!     I  usually  have  him  here  in  the  afternoons!" 

"Too  quick!"  May  said,  shaking  her  head.  Tina  felt  quite 
thrilled  to  be  admitted  to  open  talk  on  this  delicate  subject. 
She  sugared  her  tea,  nodding  reflectively. 

"I  guess  Vicky'll  have  a  string  of  'em!"  Fanny  commented., 
with  relish.     Vicky's  mother  shook  her  head  again. 

"Poor,  headstrong,  rebellious  Vicky!"  she  sighed.  "She 
looked  shabby,  last  Christmas — her  old  suit.  Doesn't  seem  to 
worry  at  all,  walked  right  up  to  Stephen " 

Fanny  and  Tina  had  heard  this  before;  they  murmured  in 
asides. 

"This  wonderful  woman  has  come  into  his  parish,"  Tina  was 
saying,  "Mrs.  Lundeen.  She  lives  at  the  hotel — they  say  she's 
worth  half  a  million — imagine.  She's  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Vernon,  isn't  it  wonderful  ?  She  gave  him  the  chancel  windows 
as  a  memorial  to  her  husband " 

"She  may  die  and  leave  him  money,"  Fanny  suggested. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fanny,  aren't  you  awful!  She's  only  twenty-six, 
imagine"  Tina  said.  "She  doesn't  like  Grace — she  says  that 
she  doesn't  like  any  women,  and  that  made  Vernon  quite  angry 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  407 

with  her.  So  then  she  sent  Grace  a  lovely  coat  from  the 
Woman's  Exchange,  for  little  Vernon.  Vernon  says  that  she 
wants  to  be  saved,  yet  the  grace  is  lacking;  he  said  an  extra- 
ordinary struggle  between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit.  Grace  is 
wonderful!  She  says  that  she  knows  that's  a  churchman's  life, 
that  he  belongs  to  his  parishioners  more  than  to  his  wife " 

Fanny  listened,  nodding.  Presently  May  urged  Tina  to  run 
off  to  Grace;  she  and  Bobo  would  clean  the  kitchen.  Fanny 
and  she  sat  on,  almost  silently,  in  the  heat.  Bobo  was  picking 
the  raisins  from  his  cake,  May  in  a  dream  over  her  teacup.  The 
table  was  littered  with  cups  and  plates;  the  cloth  rumpled. 
The  burning  midday  heat  lay  heavily  over  the  old  wooden  house 
and  the  dry  garden,  and  the  sleepy  town.  Carpenters'  hammers 
were  noisy  from  the  lots  beyond  the  back  garden.  The  new 
Torrey  baby  was  acidly  wailing — wailing.  A  wagon  rattled 
by. 

Stephen.  He  had  come  quietly  through  the  front  door,  and 
stood  watching  them,  in  the  hallway.  May  exclaimed  and 
bustled;  Bobo  ran  to  meet  him. 

"Not  sick,  dear?"  May  asked,  alarmed. 

He  felt  the  heat,  he  admitted,  sitting  down  and  wiping  his 
forehead  slowly,  with  a  big,  crumpled  handkerchief.  His  curly 
gray  hair  was  getting  very  thin,  he  looked  heavy  and  oddly  aged. 

"No  cake!"  he  said,  to  the  plate  Fanny  proffered.  "Well!" 
he  added,  on  a  deep  breath,  but  with  no  particular  concern,  as  he 
looked  about.     "Well — the  jig's  up!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Steve?"  May  asked,  instantly  anxious. 

"Uncle  Steve,"  Bobo  confided,  in  his  ear,  "I  fixed  an  eleva- 
tor, and  it  works!     I  tried  it  on  a  chicken " 

"I  mean  that  Crabtree  and  Company  went  into  the  hands 
of  a  trustee  at  eleven  o'clock  this  morning!"  Stephen  said 
mildly,  wiping  his  forehead  again,  and  looking  thoughtfully  at 
his  handkerchief  before  he  bunched  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"Yes,  sir,"  he  added,  "at  eleven  o'clock  this  morning " 

May  and  Fanny  had  been  speechless  for  a  moment;  Fanny's 
face  growing  red  as  May's  paled.     Now  both  spoke  together: 

"What!"  And  May  added,  pleadingly:  "What  is  it,  Steve? 
Is  it  bad?     What  is  a  trustee?     I  don't  understand!" 

"Yes,  it's  bad.  It's  been  bad  for  some  time  and  now — now, 
I  guess  it's  all  over!"  Stephen  told  her  unemotionally.  "Yes- 
terday we  had  a  meeting  of  creditors.     I  didn't  say  anything 


4o8    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

last  night,  May;  I  thought  perhaps  they'd  let  me  continue.  But 
they  met  again  this  morning,  and — and  they  want  to  liquidate. 
Crane's  over  with  Finch  and  Houston;  they  want  us  closed  up. 
They  own  a  majority  of  stock  in  the  Pacific  Importation  Com- 
pany and  they  are  our  heaviest  creditors.  It's  all  a  conspiracy; 
it's  all  Crane's  doing." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you're  talking  about!"  Fanny  said 
sharply.  She  was  breathing  hard  and  white  dints  showed  in  her 
quivering  nostrils  and  about  her  mouth.  "Is  Crabtree  and 
Company  in  any  real  financial  difficulty?" 

"There  won't  be  any  Crabtree  and  Company,  Fanny,  after 
they  get  through.  They've  put  in  young  Tom  Fenderson  as 
Trustee,  and  he's  managing  the  business,  now;  he's  going  to  close 
everything  up  and  divide  the  assets  among  the  creditors." 

"Well,  I  wasn't  one  bit  too  soon — you  know  I  told  you  this 
very  day  that  I  meant  to  withdraw  my  money,  May!"  Fanny 
said,  tossing  her  head.  "And  that's  what  I  shall  do,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning!  I'm  sorry,  Steve;  I  daresay  it  wasn't 
your  fault,  nor  anybody's  fault.  But  I've  got  my  own  interests 
to  look  out  for " 

Stephen  frowned,  shaking  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,  Fanny.  The  creditors 
are  going  to  close  Crabtree  and  Company  up — shut  its  doors. 
Your  stock,  my  stock,  even  your  father's  stock,  is  worth  noth- 
ing— unless  by  some  miracle  there  should  be  something  left,  and 
you  can  bet  Tom  Fenderson  will  see  that  there  isn't." 

Fanny  laughed  heartily  but  briefly. 

"Ha!  That's  all  very  well  for  talk,  Steve,"  she  said,  trem- 
bling. "But  there's  nobody  in  this  world  can  convince  me  that 
— sitting  back  and  not  doing  one  thing! — I  have  lost  all  that 
money!  All  the  money  that  Aunt  Jenny  put  into  Crabtree  and 
Company  and  left  to  me!  You've  been  saying  'No  dividends — 
no  dividends,'  for  I  don't  know  how  long,  now,  and  I  was  will- 
ing to  believe  that  perhaps  the  firm  wasn't  making  as  much 
money  as  it  had;  but  you  can't  take  my  share  of  ownership  in 
the  firm  away  from  me,  just  like  that — without  so  much  as 
'by  your  leave'!" 

Stephen  mopped  his  forehead  again,  but  he  made  no  retort. 
Fanny,  watching  him  with  a  sort  of  anxious  triumph  and  scorn, 
breathed  hard. 
-    "Steve,  what  about  Bertie?"  May  asked  instantly. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    409 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  say,  May.  They  may  keep  him  on  there  for  a  few 
weeks;  they  may  let  him  go  right  away.  Tom  Fenderson's  got 
it  in  for  the  boy;  he'll  probably  fire  him  as  he  did  me." 

"  Steve!" 

"That's  what  old  Fenderson's  boy  did  to  me  the  minute  he 
was  made  General  Manager,"  Stephen  said  slowly,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  women's  agitation.  "He  told  me  he  could  get 
along  better  if  I  wasn't  around;  said  Yeasley  and  Woolcock  could 
give  him  all  the  information  he  needed!  Old  Fenderson's  boy 
whose  father  begged  me  to  give  him  a  chance  a  few  years  ago!" 

"But  how  can  they?  Were  the  business!"  May  said  stu- 
pidly. "After  all  you've  done  for  them  Steve!  It's  base — it's 
the  wickedest  ingratitude!" 

Tina  came  in  with  little  Vernon  Yelland  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Tina — Tina,"  May  faltered,  suddenly  pressing  fingers 
to  lips  that  had  begun  to  tremble,  "Papa — your  poor  Papa — has 
come  home  with  some  very  bad  news." 

"Oh,  what?"  Tina  gasped,  sinking  into  a  chair  at  the  littered 
table  over  which  the  flies  were  now  rioting  unchallenged. 

"The  firm's  failed!"  May  stated  baldly,  bursting  out  crying. 
"Papa's  ruined!  Everything's  gone — just  at  your  happy  time, 
when  you  ought  to  be  having  nothing  but  pleasure!  And  Ber- 
tie  " 

"Mama,"  Tina  asked  intently,  "nothing  dishonourable?" 

She  could  tell  Grace  afterward  that  this  was  her  first  thought, 
and  that  when  dear  old  Papa  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  it 
had  been  nobody's  fault,  she  had  gone  to  him,  kneeling,  and  kiss- 
ing and  comforting  him. 

"What  a  blessed  consoler  you  must  have  been,  dear!"  Grace 
said,  from  her  couch.  She  was  resting,  in  the  long  summer 
twilight,  after  the  flurry  of  getting  the  babies  to  bed.  Vernon 
was  dining  with  his  spiritual  charge  at  the  hotel,  Tina  and  Grace 
could  loiter  deliciously  over  a  late  tea.  "Dear"  Grace  added 
earnestly,  "can  we  doubt  that  the  way  will  be  found,  for  all  of 
you?" 

May  was  by  this  time  comforted,  too.  Fanny,  after  writhing 
in  her  chair  in  most  unhappy  and  unwilling  silence  for  some  time, 
had  snorted,  tossed  her  head,  turned  over  the  little  watch  that 
was  pinned  with  a  silver  bow  to  her  stiff  new  shirtwaist,  and  had 
departed  for  the  three-o'clock  train.     Then  Stephen  seriously 


4io  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  kindly  had  told  May  and  Tina  all  that  they  could  under- 
stand, and  May  had  stopped  wiping  the  dishes  to  assure  him 
passionately  that  she  and  Tina  would  manage — they  would 
take  boarders — he  would  see.  And  as  long  as  Pa  lived  they  had 
their  home,  May  had  reminded  him  in  an  undertone,  glancing 
out  at  Bobo,  who  was  solemnly  elevating  the  Torrey  hens  in  his 
improvised  elevator. 

So  that  by  six  o'clock,  when  the  loveliest  hour  of  the  long  sweet 
day  arrived,  he  found  himself  bodily  weary,  but  with  a  soul  al- 
most at  peace,  placidly  watering  the  plumbago  and  heliotrope 
by  the  side  door,  with  May  cheerfully  clattering  dishes  in  the 
kitchen,  and  conversation  going  back  and  forth  between  them 
pleasantly.  If  Stephen  didn't  have  to  go  in  to-morrow,  he  and 
she  would  go  down  and  see  Bertie's  wife  and  baby. 

Poor  Steve,  after  all  these  years,  slaving  and  working,  and 
carrying  the  whole  load  for  everyone;  if  he  didn't  deserve  a  little 
vacation,  who  did  ?  By  nightfall  they  were  laughing  most  dis- 
loyally at  Fanny;  poor  old  Fan,  hadn't  she  been  wild? 

"She  has  all  Aunt  Jenny's  money  left!"  May  said,  "and  we 
lose  everything.     I  declare  I  don't  feel  one  bit  sorry  for  Fan!" 

And  after  some  three  or  four  days  had  passed,  a  strange  peace 
fell  upon  the  more-than-ever  united  family.  Bankruptcy 
sounded  frightful;  but  there  was  nothing  frightful  to  May  in 
having  dear  Steve  so  contentedly  at  home,  puttering  with  Bobo 
among  the  varied  activities  of  yard  and  garden,  snipping  mar- 
guerites, watering  the  flowers.  Rob  had  long  ago  offered  to 
pay  board  for  Bobo,  now  he  began  to  do  so.  Tina  got  a  ticket 
for  the  Woman's  Exchange,  and  took  over  glasses  of  jelly,  and 
armsful  of  chrysanthemums.  And  in  October  Fanny  proposed 
that  she  and  Pa  and  Carra  should  come  over;  there  was  plenty  of 
room,  and  they  would  be  much  better  off  paying  board  to  May 
than  paying  a  Japanese  servant  and  rent  and  everything  else  at 
the  California  Street  house.  This  made  May  feel  useful  and 
satisfied;  she  expressed  herself  as  only  afraid  that  Pa  could  not 
stand  the  strain  of  the  move. 

The  calamity  seemed  to  have  softened  everyone;  even  Fanny 
was  unwontedly  pacific.  She  held  tenaciously  to  her  un- 
touched thousands,  never  mentioning  them  or  business  at  all. 
Saunders  cut  her  coupons  and  put  her  checks  in  the  bank.  She 
watched  her  father  dutifully,  when  Carra  was  at  meals,  helped 
Tina  with  dishwashing,  and  gossiped  with  May  in  comfortable 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  411 

old-lady  fashion.  About  twice  a  week  Fanny  flashed  into  town 
feeling  quite  rich  with  no  household  bills  to  pay,  lunching  at 
Swains',  changing  a  library  book,  stepping  into  the  Woman's 
Exchange  to  see  how  Tina's  cup-cakes  were  selling.  She  talked 
with  other  women  on  the  boat,  tilting  up  and  down  gently  on  the 
blue  water  of  the  bay,  the  sweet  fresh  air  reddening  her  harsh 
face,  her  decent  buttoned  boots  showing  under  her  brush-edged 
long  skirt,  and  her  hands  encased  in  worn,  shiny  black  kid  gloves. 
She  knew  everybody. 

"Who  is  it,  Mama?"  a  little  girl,  nicely  dressed  for  town, 
might  whisper. 

"That's  Miss  Fanny  Crabtree — don't  you  know  nice  Miss 
Tina  Brewer's  aunt?"  the  mother  would  answer  abstractedly, 
settling  string  bag,  book,  umbrella  and  wilting  nosegay  of  coun- 
try flowers  beside  her  seat.  "They're  old  San  Franciscans — 
pioneers,  I  think." 

And  if,  streaming  slowly  off  the  boat,  she  saw  Fanny  again,  she 
would  ask,  pleasantly:  "All  well  in  San  Rafael,  Miss  Fanny? 
That's  good!"  before  hurrying  across  the  ferry  place,  and  anx- 
iously manoeuvring  for  dummy  seats  on  the  Market  Street  car. 
Old  Reuben  Crabtree  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  childish.  He 
did  not  seem  to  realize  much  of  the  firm's  failure,  but  he  was  well 
enough  now  and  then  to  go  into  town  and  see  Saunders.  For 
the  most  part  he  was  delighted  with  Bobo's  society.     If  any  one 

j.  ever  spoke  to  him  sharply,  even  in  kindly  warning,  he  wept, 
sometimes  also  he  wept  for  love,  and  wanted  to  kiss  Lou  or  Tina 

;  over  and  over  again.  May,  Stephen,  and  Fanny  all  felt  that  he 
was  utterly  unfit  to  manage  what  remained  of  his  affairs,  but 

1  they  had  no  choice.     He  consulted  none  of  them. 

Stephen  seemed  a  tower  of  youthful  strength  beside  him — 

J  Stephen,  who  could  climb  step-ladders  and  prune  roses  and  walk 
briskly  into  town  to  send  a  telegram.  And  Stephen  liked  the 
role  of  powerful,  gentle  guardian;  May  often  said  that  Steve's  be- 
ing home  just  now  was  a  perfect  godsend.     He  and  Carra  fol- 

[  lowed  the  old  man  about,  and  when  his  knee  was  bad  wheeled  his 
chair;  old  Reuben  would  gabble  and  sputter  over  his  meals  like 
a  duck,  he  had  to  have  his  napkin  tied  about  his  neck,  to  Bobo's 
surprise  and  awed  pity.  It  could  not  be  long  now,  May  and 
Fanny  said. 

Before  the  autumn  came,  it  was  as  natural  for  May  to  call 
out  into  the  garden  a  warning  to  Steve  to  bring  Pa  in,  and  for 


4i2    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Tina  to  set  "Aunt  Fan's  place"  at  the  table,  as  had  ever  been 
any  other  order  in  the  old  house. 

Lucy,  entirely  counted  out  in  this  new  arrangement,  had  ad- 
justed herself  to  it  with  her  customary  suavity.  Fanny  was 
eaten  ^with  curiosity  as  to  where  Lucy's  money  came  from; 
she  always  had  it;  Fanny  would  see  a  gold  piece  or  a  silver  dol- 
lar or  two  whenever  her  purse  happened  to  be  open.  Lucy  went 
to  the  Misses  Grandet;  decayed  and  forlorn  and  black-clad 
French  sisters  who  managed  a  languishing  boarding-house  in 
Hyde  Street,  took  possession  of  a  small  hall  bedroom,  and  spoke 
placidly  of  Harry's  getting  a  little  more  "settled"  before  she 
joined  him. 

Occasionally  she  came  over  to  San  Rafael,  the  pleasantly  in- 
terested but  unconcerned  visitor.  Once  she  mentioned  having 
been  to  Sacramento:  Fanny's  eyes  shot  to  May's,  and  her  jaw 
snapped.  No  reason  in  the  world  why  Lucy  shouldn't  go  to 
Sacramento,  of  course. 

"Did  you  see  Bob,  Lucy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.     He  took  me  to  dinner!" 

Fanny  laughed  sardonically. 

"Well,  I  hope  the  good  Sacramentans  think  it  quite  natural 
for  a  lady  to  go  to  Sacramento  to  see  her  brother-in-law!"  she 
said  lightly  and  playfully.     Lucy  widened  her  frog-like  eyes. 

"My  dear  Fanny,  I  am  fifty-three!"  she  said  good-naturedly. 
Fanny  turned  a  resentful  brick-red  and  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

VICTORIA  came  down  to  breakfast,  quite  as  usual.  She 
preceded  Davy  by  several  minutes,  going  out  into  the 
kitchen  at  once,  and  sitting,  panting,  on  a  chair.  Davy's 
mother  was  at  the  stove,  his  sister  Mary  cutting  bread  at  the 
table.     Both  smiled  at  her,  and  Mrs.  Dudley  said  affectionately: 

)' Good  night?" 

"Too  good!"  Victoria  answered  ruefully.  "He's  going  to 
be  late  for  all  his  engagements;  he  gets  it  from  me!"  she  added. 
All  three  women  laughed  together. 

"Boo!  This  is  a  cold  day!"  Mary  Dudley  breathed  of  the 
icy  out-of-doors,  as  she  came  in  with  the  milk  and  paper.  "What 
did  you  get  up  for,  Vick?"  she  added,  reproachfully. 

"I've  got  to  do  something!"  Victoria  protested.  "I  think 
I'll  ride  horseback!"  she  went  on  rebelliously. 

"I  declare  I'm  never  going  to  try  another  baking  powder!" 
Mrs.  Dudley  said  suddenly.  "Now  look  there,  Mary.  I  done 
just  exactly  what  I  done  before,  and  they  come  out  splendid!" 

Victoria,  her  coffee  cup  steaming  with  the  delicious  hot  drink, 
the  baking-powder  biscuit  split  in  her  fingers,  looked  about  the 
kitchen  and  sighed.  It  would  be  good  to  be  lithe  and  brisk, 
like  Mary  and  Mother  again.  She  felt  as  if  last  winter  were 
ages  ago;  those  cold,  sharp  days  before  Christmas,  when  she  and 
David  had  walked  and  gathered  red  berries  on  the  hills. 

It  had  been  in  that  first  winter  of  her  marriage  that  she  and 
Davy  had  won  forgiveness  from  the  family  in  San  Rafael.  For 
a  few  weeks  after  their  marriage  there  had  been  no  word;  then 
Vicky  wrote  as  charming  and  winning  a  letter  as  she  could  man- 
age, and  sent  it  to  her  father  with  the  money  that  had  been 
through  so  unexpected  an  experience  with  her.  She  was  sorry, 
she  said  simply,  she  wanted  Mama  and  Papa  to  forgive  her,  and 
love  her  again,  because  she  was  so  happy. 

May  answered  immediately,  luxuriating  in  reproaches  and 
tears,  sure  that  dear,  dear  Esme  never  would  have  treated  the 

4i3 


4i4    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

best  father  in  the  world,  "  and  a  Mama  who  at  least  tries  to  be  a 
real  chum  and  confidante  of  her  girls,"  in  so  cruel  a  fashion. 
May,  however,  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  daughter  married,  and 
Vicky  suspected  the  truth  that  lay  back  of  the  wavy  underlining 
and  the  crossing  at  the  tops  of  the  pages.  Her  mother  longed 
as  much  as  she  for  a  reconciliation.  So,  learning  from  Lou  that 
there  was  to  be  a  family  gathering  on  Christmas  night,  Vicky 
and  Davy  went  boldly  to  San  Rafael,  and  in  five  minutes  every- 
thing was  right  again.  Stephen  talked  confidentially  and  ap- 
preciatively to  Davy,  and  Vicky  buttoned  on  an  apron  and  set 
the  table  and  made  the  gravy;  she  was  married  at  last,  with  her 
husband  like  a  son  in  the  old  home,  and  there  was  more  laughter 
and  warmth  and  harmony  in  the  Brewer  household  than  there 
had  been  for  months. 

That  was  last  year.  But  Vicky  would  not  go  down  this  year; 
she  would  have  a  "young  baby."  Women  didn't  go  abroad 
when  they  had  young  babies.  Her  heart  thumped  furiously. 
"It  might  come  any  day  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  awe 
and  trembling. 

Mary  flashed  down  cellar;  the  odour  of  spicy  apples  came  in 
with  the  cooler  air.  Mrs.  Dudley  climbed  on  a  chair  to  reach 
jam.  Victoria's  baby  was  two  weeks  late;  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  dragging  about  in  this  state  of  indefinite  expectation  for 
years  instead  of  months. 

Davy  came  in,  ready  for  breakfast;  the  clock  struck  seven. 
It  was  pleasant  in  the  shabby,  worn  kitchen,  when  all  four  of  them 
were  discussing  biscuits  and  omelette,  and  the  desultory  talk  of 
the  day  was  under  way.  Mary  wanted  Vicky  to  come  with  her 
to  the  meeting  at  church;  just  women,  she  pleaded,  and  the  walk 
would  do  Vicky  good!  Victoria  laughed;  all  right,  if  Mary 
would  take  the  chances. 

There  was  a  table  outside  the  kitchen  window  upon  which 
the  morning  sun  slanted  coldly.  A  bright  pumpkin  and  some 
sweet  potatoes  were  on  the  table  in  an  old  pan;  the  cat  leaped 
up  there,  and  licked  them  tentatively.  Out-of-doors  was  bleak; 
a  chill  wind  rattled  the  bare  whips  of  the  willows.  But  here  in 
the  kitchen  everything  was  hearteningly  warm. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  in  and  get  quite  a  lot  of  things  out  of  the 
way,"  Mrs.  Dudley  announced.  "The  Graysons  may  be  in 
to-morrow,  and  I  ain't  got  a  taste  of  cake  on  the  place.  I  thought 
maybe  I'd  marble  one,  and  have  the  other  plain,  with  orange 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    415 

frosting.     Folks  get  kinder  foundered  on  cocoanut,  this  cold 
weather!" 

"Don't  like  cake — never  touch  it — prefer  you  to  do  something 
else!"  David  said,  amiably.  His  mother,  a  lean,  tall  woman 
with  oily  gray  hair  and  a  long,  hard-working  hand,  eyed  him 
scornfully. 

"It's  too  bad  about  you!"  she  observed.  Mary  resumed  one 
of  those  endless  small-town  ruminations  that  are  always  on  tap. 
"Speaking  of  Jen  Hooper — as'  Lizabeth  says,  if  she  had  really 
meant  to  give  it  up,  she  would  have  done  it  that  night,  but  her 
waiting  until  Jo  Harper  got  here — and  as  far  as  that  goes,  Jo 
said  she  never  wrote  her  about  it,  not  one  word — says  she  heard 
of  it  from  Minnie  Kane.     'Why,'  she  said,  'is  it  likely  I  would 

have  sat  there  like  a  bump  on  a  log ?'" 

Victoria  listened  to  them  all;  indeed  was  deeply  interested  in 
what  she  heard.  She  had  not  lived  fifteen  months  in  a  small 
town  without  falling  captive  to  the  fascination  of  small-town 
gossip.  Mrs.  Dudley,  who  was  "Mother  Dudley"  to  everyone, 
was  no  lover  of  scandal.  Reputations  were  never  destroyed  in 
the  old  kitchen,  but  they  were  dissected,  analyzed,  inspected, 
compared  endlessly,  and  with  undying  relish.  Small  things 
when  seen  close  enough  are  great,  and  these  things  were  larger 
than  the  largest  scrap  of  restricted,  curtailed,  divided  life  that 
can  ever  be  lived  in  a  big  city.  These  were  chronicles  of  birth 
and  death,  of  love  and  hate,  all  the  interplay  and  complication 
of  feuds,  intermarriages,  inheritances  and  prejudices  that  had 
been  growing  undisturbed  for  fifty  years,  in  this  simple  and 
spacious  environment. 

To  go  to  the  theatre  in  San  Francisco  with  Bertie  had  been 
;  amusing;  a  delightful  evening's  entertainment.     But  to  go  to  a 
l  concert  here  in  Napa,  with  David  and  Mary,  and  have  all  one's 
!  intimates  about  one,  all  the  hereditary  enemies  of  the  house 
also  in  the  hall,  all  the  "talent"  either  to  be  scorned  or  abetted, 
every  little  encounter  of  eyes  or  voices  deeply  significant;  this 
was  life.     Mary  would  be  managing  two  swains  at  once;  Minnie 
!  or  Dora  or  Anita  would  come  to  whisper  some  delicious  develop- 
ment in  Vicky's  ear,  Davy  would  murmur  her  the  history  of  the 
i  famous  Unger  murder  case,  when  Dolly  Unger  got  up  to  sing, 
I  and  everyone  would  be  free  to  observe  that  Nat  Perry  was  with 
[  the  Hudson  girl  again. 

The  days  were  full  of  events,  significant  hurryings  to  and  fro. 


4i6    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

And  the  evenings — especially  the  summer  evenings — when  all 
the  young  people  of  the  place  loitered  up  and  down  River  Street 
in  the  warm  dark  under  the  big  trees,  and  ordered  ice-cream 
sodas,  and  bought  writing-tablets  or  toilet  soap  or  pencils  in 
Terry's,  were  something  for  which  to  wait  all  day. 

It  had  been  great  fun,  last  June,  to  answer  a  whispered  "yes!" 
to  all  the  eager  insinuating  and  questioning;  everything  had 
been  fun  until  these  last  dragging  weeks,  when  Vicky  had  felt 
so  tired  all  the  time,  and  so  stupidly  useless.  And  now  here  was 
another  cold  day;  the  third,  and  so  the  last,  of  the  "snap,"  but 
somehow  to  be  got  through  with  books  and  sewing 

She  listened,  smiled,  even  commented.  But  under  it  all  ran 
undisturbed  the  great  river  of  doubt,  fear,  hope,  ignorance, 
upon  which  her  life  had  been  floating  for  nine  long  months. 
Would  her  hour  be  bad  ?  Would  it  be  wonderfully  good  ?  What 
would  it  be?  What  was  it  all  about?  The  unrealness  of  speak- 
ing of  "after  the  baby  comes,',  of  making  definite  little  flannelly 
garments  for  this  mythical  little  person,  wrapped  her  in  dreams. 
It  was  suffering;  she  had  never  known  suffering.  She  listened 
to  the  older  women  anxiously,  when  they  spoke  of  her  "ordeal," 
of  her  "trouble,"  of  "labour."  She  would  be  brave.  But 
would  she  be  brave? 

"Would  you  chance  driving  up  to  the  Springs  with  me,  if  I 
have  to  go?"  Davy  asked,  with  his  parting  kiss.  She  drew  his 
hard,  firm  cheek  against  her  soft  one. 

"My  dear,  I'd  chance  a  trip  to  the  north  pole!" 

He  laughed  tenderly  at  her  fretfulness  and  spirit. 

"Never  mind,  you  poor  old  darling !"  he  was  beginning, 

when  Victoria,  who  had  gotten  to  her  feet,  clutched  his  arm 
sharply,  and  sat  down  again. 

Something  happening  at  last!  It  was  so  welcome,  after  the 
long  delay!  Mary  ran  over  to  'Lizabeth's  house,  next  door. 
Mother,  gravely  and  cheerfully  efficient,  kept  Vicky  in  the 
kitchen  rocker  while  she  carried  the  oil-stove  upstairs.  Davy 
rushed  off  to  hurry  through  morning  rounds,  and  be  back  again. 
The  telephone  rang;  Miss  Gussy  was  on  her  way,  Doctor  Boone 
would  stop  in  about  ten  o'clock. 

Now  was  the  time  when  she  was  to  be  brave.  Victoria  rallied 
her  courage  herojcally,  she  would  be  brave.  She  felt  rather 
cold,   vague,   and   frightened.     Chills   ran  over  her,   her  face 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    417 

burned  with  fever;  tiny  tendrils  of  pain  seized  her  momentarily 
and  were  gone.  She  sat  in  the  rocker,  useless,  while  Mary  and 
'Lizabeth  and  Miss  Gussy  flew  about  with  sheets  and  towels. 

They  all  came  down  to  the  kitchen;  it  was  warmer  there. 
Victoria  was  conscious  of  a  hope  that  this  discomfort  she  was  so 
gaily  enduring  might  turn  out  to  be  the  worst  of  the  whole  thing. 

Other  women  were  cowards  about  pain 

The  doctor  came;  she  and  the  nurse  went  upstairs  with  him, 
came  down  again.  Everything  splendid — he  would  come  back. 
"When,  Doctor ?"  She  hated  herself  for  faltering  it. 
"Long  before  you  need  me,  Missy!"  He  went  out  into  the 
cold  front  hall,  and  was  heard  talking  with  Miss  Gussy — talking 
about  some  entirely  indifferent  matter,  Victoria  discovered, 
with  a  pang.     She  was  not  really  into  it,  yet,  then! 

"That's  the  time  old  Tom  got  what  was  coming  to  him!"  the 
doctor  said,  chuckling.  "I  don't  know  as  Tom's  wife  felt  any 
too  bad  about  it,"  Miss  Gussy  answered  laconically.  "He's  the 
kind  that  don't  often  get  his  come-uppance!" 

Miss  Gussy  came  back  to  the  kitchen;  it  was  still  the  warmest 
room  in  the  house,  although  a  great  fire  was  going  in  the  "air- 
tight" in  Mrs.  Dudley's  room  now,  and  the  door  into  Vicky's 
room,  adjoining,  was  open.  'Lizabeth  and  Mary  came  and 
went  cheerfully;  their  mother  reminded  them  that  things  must 
be  warm  and  comfortable  for  "company  unexpected."  Vic- 
toria wished  that  something  would  happen;  she  seemed  to  be  the 
only  person  not  involved  in  this  excitement. 

She  stood  at  the  window,  studying  the  cold  yard,  and  the 

wind  ruffling  the  bare  willow  whips.     'Lizabeth  ran  home  across 

the  back  lot  to  her  own  babies,  both  girls.     She  had  told  Vicky 

;  that  if  her  child  was  a  boy,  she — Aunt  'Lizabeth — was  going  to 

pack  hers  off  to  orphanages.     Vicky  tried  to  smile,  remembering 

I  the  jest,  but  she  felt  too  frightened  and  solemn  to  smile. 

Mary  had  put  on  her  coat  and  the  geranium  hat,  and  gone  off 

to  market,  to  the  Post  Office,  to  excuse  Mother  to  Mrs.  Bean, 

who  was  ill — on  a  thousand  alert,  happy  errands.     Victoria 

hoped  that  Miss  Gussy  and  Mother  realized  that  she  was  in  pain. 

They  chatted  comfortably.     Miss  Gussy,  who  was  really  Mrs. 

I  Thomas  Petters,  was  a  big,  broad,  softly  padded  woman  of  about 

;.  fifty,  the  mother  herself  of  several  grown  children.     Vicky  did 

,  not  like  her  much,  en  second  view.     She  had  happened  to  see  her 

I  nurse  only  once  before. 


4i 8    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Davy's  mother  evidently  liked  her,  though,  and  Vicky  had 
great  faith  in  her  judgment.  "Mother"  was  the  idol  of  the 
house.  To  her  gaunt  homeliness  her  children  were  blind;  she 
simply  existed  in  perfection  like  an  ocean  or  a  mountain.  Vicky, 
during  the  first  months  of  her  marriage,  had  watched  her  wist- 
fully; it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  everyone  love  one! 

Mrs.  Dudley  deeply  loved  her  son's  wife;  she  and  Mary 
thought  Vicky  the  prettiest,  wittiest,  most  charming  person  they 
knew.  They  had  welcomed  her  into  the  family  warmly,  they 
boasted  of  her  to  the  neighbours.  She  had  been  a  special  fa- 
vourite from  the  moment  she  had  arrived,  shy  and  smiling,  be- 
side the  radiant  David,  on  a  soft  September  evening  now  more 
than  a  year  ago.  The  miracle  of  the  girl's  passionate  devotion 
to  David  never  grew  old  in  the  mother's  thankful  heart.  And 
when  Vicky  tied  on  a  kitchen  apron,  and  brought,  with  new 
laughter  and  new  life  into  the  house,  a  practised,  practical 
knowledge  of  housekeeping,  the  last  barrier  went  down  before 
her. 

To  Vicky,  hungering  all  her  life  for  just  such  appreciation  and 
just  such  an  opportunity  to  serve,  this  domestic  harmony  threw 
an  added  glamour  over  the  glorious  happiness  of  being  beloved 
by  David,  of  being  "Mrs.  Dave"  in  River  Street  and  in  the 
Post  Office,  of  all  the  new  delights  and  dignities  of  married  life. 
There  was  a  delicious  sense  of  being  established,  when  Mary 
chattered  of  her  beaus,  or  Tina  wrote  about  being  chaperoned  to 
a  concert.  She,  Vicky  Dudley,  might  sit  back  and  listen  to  all 
the  different  girls  complacently;  there  was  a  gold  ring  on  her 
finger  and  a  man  waiting  for  her. 

And  now  the  first  newness  of  that  was  over,  and  the  long 
months  of  wondering,  hoping,  fearing  about  just  one  thing  were 
over,  and  it  was  a  cold,  clear  still  December  morning,  with  frost 
on  the  chrysanthemums,  and  the  great  hour  had  come. 

"  Finally,  I  up  and  asked  her,"  Miss  Gussy  was  saying  com- 
fortably, over  a  late  cup  of  coffee.  Vicky  turned  and  glanced 
at  the  two  talking  women.  The  kitchen  was  almost  too  warm 
now;  steam  was  on  the  windows,  bright  in  the  winter  sunshine. 
There  was  a  little  ruff  of  dried  grounds  about  the  spout  of  the 
stained  blue  coffee  pot.  Miss  Gussy  had  on  a  stiff  gray  percale; 
she  had  worn  a  warm  shawl,  but  she  had  taken  that  off  now. 
Mother  wore  her  faded  chocolate  calico  with  the  big  brooch  at 
her  throat. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    419 

"I  up  and  asked  her,"  said  Miss  Gussy,  chuckling.  "I  says 
'Mamie,  there's  ben  considerable  talk  this  way  and  that,  but 
all  is/  I  says,  'all  is,  if  your  father  didn't  rent  Judd  House's 
lot '" 

"I  11006,''  Victoria  said,  laughing  uncomfortably  and  trying 
to  be  humorous,  "that  you  don't  think — just  because  I'm 
behaving  so  well! — that  I'm  happy  P' 

"Poor  child!"  Davy's  mother  smiled  with  infinite  tenderness 
as  she  went  to  the  sink.  Miss  Gussy  gave  her  a  shrewd  glance 
through  glasses. 

"I'm  watchin'  you  like  a  cat,  dear!"  she  answered.  "It's  the 
sickness  that  gets  worse  before  it  gets  well,  as  the  little  girl  said. 
Well,  she  give  me  a  look  .  .  ."  she  resumed,  of  Mamie.  Vic- 
toria set  her  teeth  and  picked  up  a  dishtowel. 

"Now  we  are  beginnin'  to  get  somewhere!"  Miss  Gussy  de- 
cided, when  the  patient,  some  fifteen  minutes  later,  grasped  the 
back  of  a  chair,  and  panted  with  dropped  head  and  shut  teeth. 
"Suppose  we  go  up?"  she  added,  to  Mrs.  Dudley. 

They  went  upstairs;  Victoria  reached  her  room  spent  by  an- 
other spasm  of  pain  on  the  stairs,  and  glad  to  see  the  neatly 
turned  bed,  and  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  clear,  fresh  air.  Mrs. 
Dudley,  anxiety  in  her  eyes,  took  the  rocking  chair;  Miss  Gussy 
fussed  with  the  contents  of  the  blue  basket  with  the  dotted  swiss 
ruffles,  pins,  scissors,  cornstarch  pad.  Little  blue  bootees  with 
tasselled  ends — who  had  given  her  those?  Who  had  given 
her  those  ?     Oh — oh — oh — it  didn't  matter 

"Keep  walking,  lovey!"  Davy's  mother  urged.  Victoria 
moved  restlessly.  'Lizabeth  came  in,  a  plain  woman  of  thirty, 
with  none  of  the  bloom  of  youth  left  in  her  bright,  sensible  face. 
Mary  peeped  in  the  door — lunch  was  ready! 

"We're  takin'  our  time,"  said  Miss  Gussy  cheerfully.  "I 
don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  come  down  and  have  some 
lunch!"  she  added.  "This  feller  may  keep  us  all  waitin'  dear 
knows  how  long!" 

Victoria's  heart  sank;  nothing  had  happened  yet.  She  went 
down  to  drink  some  tea,  crumble  hateful  bread. — Davy  came 
in,  anxious  and  loving;  she  could  not  smile  at  him.  She  had  his 
strong  arm  upon  which  to  get  upstairs  again.  He  said  he  would 
stay  'round  now;  get  in  some  wood.  That  was  something, 
Davy  wasn't  going  away  again.  Writhing — grinding — writh- 
ing— grinding  —Nelly  had   had   this  four  times,   poor  Nelly! 


420    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Poor — but  this  was  not  right.     This  couldn't  be  right — they 
couldn't  know  how  bad 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  kitchen  for  a  few  minutes!"  Miss 
Gussy  was  actually  leaving  her!  Mother  was  talking  to  her 
pleasantly;  only  she  could  not  hear.  Mary  came  to  the  door 
with  a  message:  Doctor  Boone  would  be  at  the  hospital  until 
half-past  four.     If  they  wanted  him  they  were  to  telephone. 

Half-past  four!  Victoria  sent  a  sick  glance  at  the  clock. 
It  was  quarter  to  three 

Five  minutes  to  three.  "I  can't  stand  this!"  she  stammered 
to  'Lizabeth,  in  tears.  'Lizabeth's  face  was  pale  with  com- 
prehending sympathy. 

"Don't  stand  it!"  she  said  sturdily.  "Raise  the  roof — 
that's  what  I  do!" 

Victoria  managed  a  twisted  laugh. 

"I  had  to  laugh  at  Winny  Tafts,  with  her  last  one,"  remarked 
Miss  Gussy.  "She  says,  Tf  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it 
folks'd  be  made  different !'  She  had  it  real  easy,  though — I 
don't  b'leeve  you're  going  to  have  much  more  of  this,  Mrs. 
Dave.     Seems  like  you're  helping  real  good,  now." 

"I  think  we  ought  to  get  this  girl  to  bed!"  Victoria  could 
have  kissed  her  husband's  mother  for  the  words. 

"  I'd  keep  walkin',"  Miss  Gussy  answered,  amiably.  "  Dave," 
she  said,  to  David,  who  came  in  with  an  armful  of  wood,  tei 
minutes  later,  "step  to  the  telephone  and  tell  Doc'  Boone  thai 
I'd  be  real  obliged  if  he'd  sagatiate  his  corporosity  round  here 
just  as  soon  as  it's  handy.  Now  I  b'leeve  we'd  better  get  yoi 
into  bed,  dear,"  she  added,  to  Victoria,  as  Davy  rushed  from  th< 
room. 

Writhing — grinding — writhing — grinding.  Victoria  got  into 
the  warmed  sheets.  She  was  panting  now,  her  breath  coming 
short,  her  palms  wet,  and  the  dark  curls  stuck  to  her  temples. 
She  looked  intense,  frightened,  grim. 

"This  is  the  very  worst,  dear.  There  isn't  much  of  this!" 
Mrs.  Dudley  said,  holding  her  slippery,  desperate  fingers. 

"Ow — ow — ow — "  the  groans  were  dragged  from  her,  one  by 
one.  Davy  heard  them,  as  he  and  Doctor  Boone  came  in  down- 
stairs. Then  there  was  a  silence.  Victoria  whispered  some 
indistinct  words,  broke  into  hard  groans  again. 

They  were  all  about  her;  but  there  was  no  world,  no  David, 
no  heroism,  and  no  future.     It  was  all  one  blind  whirl  of  agonies 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    421 

seething  into  deeper  agonies.  She  was  screaming — she  was 
panting  again  in  a  moment's  respite — she  was  screaming,  high 
and  hard,  again 

Davy  was  kneeling  beside  her,  busily  greasing  her  face.  She 
tossed  her  head  away  from  him,  away  from  the  little  strainer  he 
was  holding  over  her  mouth.  Far  off — among  the  burning, 
shrieking  stars — the  hideous  relentless  pinprick  was  beginning 
again,  it  was  coming  nearer — it  was  growing 

"Just  breathe  deep,  my  darling — it  will  help  you!"  Davy's 
voice  said,  in  the  dark.  But  she  could  not  breathe  deep — she 
could  do  nothing,  in  this  bath  of  flame 

She  did  breathe  deep.  She  heard  her  own  scream  indiffer- 
ently; as  she  went  brokenly,  blindly,  into  velvety  blackness  and 
space. 

Something  was  alive.  Walled  all  about  by  darkness,  yet 
it  was  alive.  It  was  breathing;  it  was  hot,  wet,  exhausted.  It 
could,  with  infinite  weariness,  open  its  eyes  and  see. 

The  window,  the  ruffled  gray  sky  of  the  December  day  out- 
side— Mary's  graduation  picture — Davy's  face. 

Victoria  could  not  smile,  she  could  not  speak;  she  closed  her 
eyes  again. 

Water  was  running;  people  were  stepping  softly.  Someone 
was  holding  her  hand ;  her  head  ached.  She  was  Victoria  Brewer 
Dudley,  long,  long  ago  she  had  been  screaming 

"Yes,  she  did.     She  looked  at  me,  Doc."     That  was  Davy. 

Peace.  No  more  pain.  Her  head  cleared.  Delicious  rest 
and  peace. 

"I  think  we  can  make  her  more  comfortable!  Just  hold  that 
aside,  Davy " 

How  kind  they  were!  Hands  were  raising  her,  settling  her, 
easing  her  on  to  pillows.     She  began  to  cry;  opened  her  eyes. 

"My  sweetheart!"  Davy's  tear-wet  face  was  not  six  inches 
from  her  own.  Victoria's  lashes  fell,  bitter  tears  squeezed  be- 
tween them.     "What  is  it,  darling?"  he  breathed. 

"You're  all  so  kind  to  me!"  she  whispered,  pitifully. 

She  heard  him  laugh  brokenly  and  repeat  this.  She  whis- 
pered a  question  of  the  time. 

"Quarter  to  four!"  Victoria  turned  this  over  in  her  mind;  it 
must  be  some  other  day,  then.  She  dozed  heavily,  briefly, 
her  head  against  her  husband's  arm. 


422  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Then  suddenly  her  eyes  were  open;  the  lamp  was  lighted. 
She  smiled,  roused  herself,  almost  raised  herself  in  bed. 

"Davy!  Was  I  asleep ?" 

Miss  Gussy  was  smiling  at  her. 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel?" 

"Oh,  wonderfully!     But  starving!" 

"You've  got  a  little  boy,  Vicky!"  David  said,  kissing  her. 
Victoria  kept  her  eyes  faithfully,  expectantly,  upon  him.  But 
now  they  filled  with  tears,  and  her  lips  trembled.  Ignorant, 
repressed,  deceived.  Somehow  she  had  come  through  her  thirty 
years  of  hunger  and  bewilderment,  to  the  glorious  reality  of  this 
hour.  Miraculously,  the  boy  was  here,  snuffling  busily  in  fra- 
grant blankets.  The  miracle  of  a  tiny  mottled  fist  gave  way  to 
the  miracle  of  a  dark,  tiny,  soft,  and  angry  face. 

Victoria's  eyes  were  shining  with  immortal  glory.  She  moved 
a  weak  hand,  smiled. 

"You  cross  little  baby,  you!" 

"He's  a  beautiful  child — perfect!"  Davy's  mother  said.  "I 
never  saw  such  a  child — he's  like  a  three-months'  baby!" 

Victoria  looked  at  him,  her  heart  swelling  with  a  profoundly 
new  and  marvellous  emotion.  Thought  came  to  her;  Davy's 
arm  about  her,  Davy's  mother  sitting  here  in  the  low  rocker, 
with  her  baby. 

"Isn't  he — little — and  innocent?"  she  marvelled;  feeling  for 
new  words  for  the  great  new  discovery.    They  put  him  beside  her. 

It  was  over:  the  earthquake  and  fire.  Now  came  the  still 
small  voice  of  the  Lord,  with  infinite  peace,  infinite  joy.  What 
a  transformed  room  this  plain  bedroom  was,  what  a  transformed 
life  lay  beyond  this  great  hour,  what  a  transformed  woman  little 
Davy  Dudley's  mother  must  be !  Miss  Gussy,  with  a  cup  of  hot 
tea,  seemed  to  Victoria  everything  that  represented  domestic 
beauty,  hearth-side  warmth  in  bleak  winter  twilights,  comfort, 
rest,  triumph. 

She  was  a  little  hot  and  headachy  in  the  night;  worried  by  Miss 
Gussy's  indifference  to  the  baby's  crying.  He  must  be  crying 
for  something 

But  she  did  sleep,  and  was  patient  for  the  nine  days  in  bed, 
beautiful  as  she  had  never  been  in  her  life,  newly  poised  and 
sweet.  She  leaned  on  a  crooked  arm,  laughing  at  the  busy  little 
ineffectual  lips  at  her  breast;  she  braided  down  to  a  single 
hair  the  end  of  her  long,  soft  braid. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  423 

On  the  tenth  day  she  was  sitting  up,  congratulatory  neigh- 
bours and  friends  could  peep  in.  None  of  the  flurries  and  anx- 
ieties of  first  motherhood  were  hers,  for  Davy's  mother  handled 
the  baby  as  calmly  and  as  expertly  as  if  he  had  been  no  more 
than  a  little  cabbage,  and  'Lizabeth  was  always  accessible  for 
consultations. 

Her  own  mother  wrote  her,  tremulously  glad.  May  said  that 
she  wished  Vicky  had  seen  dear  Papa's  pleasure  in  the  news  of 
a  grandson.  He  had  said  at  once  that  some  day  Vick  must  bring 
the  boy  home  for  a  visit.  Grandpa  was  well,  Bobo  was  well. 
Aunt  Fanny  was  very  busy  over  the  gingerbread  fete  for  the 
hospital.  "Life  and  death  seem  strangely  mingled — "  May's 
indeterminate  handwriting  ran  on — "poor  dear  Tina  has  had 
another  sorrow  to  bear,  in  the  death  of  our  dear  Grace  Yelland. 
There  was  another  little  one  coming,  and  a  fall  upon  what  we 
think  was  an  old  piece  of  wire  fencing  caused  her  a  premature 
confinement.  The  poor  little  baby,  a  girl,  is  living,  Grace 
wished  her  named  Alma.  Tina  is  crushed.  A  Mrs.  Lundeen, 
one  of  Vernon's  new  parishioners,  has  the  baby  with  her  and  her 
maid,  at  the  hotel.  We  help  with  the  others  as  best  we  can. 
What  a  sad,  sad  Christmas!" 

Victoria  lay  warm  and  snug,  in  the  terrific  storm  that  brought 
in  the  holidays,  and  thought  of  the  other  young  woman  whose 
life  had  ended  just  as  her  own  seemed  so  gloriously  in  flower. 
Poor  Grace,  lying  in  her  rain-swept  new  grave,  and  poor  Tina 
grieving.  And  poor  Lou,  working  in  Bertie's  household  for 
Bertie's  wife.  Poor  everybody,  indeed,  who  did  not  have  a 
place  in  this  shabby,  warm  old  mansarded  house  under  locust 
trees,  a  share  in  the  joy  and  the  responsibility  of  Taffy. 

She  looked  at  Taffy,  who  was  asleep  in  a  well-lined  clothes 
basket  beside  her  bed.  He  was  on  his  side,  his  small  body  su- 
perbly curved  and  plump,  his  fine,  round  little  head  dark  against 
the  white  pillow.  While  she  looked,  he  sighed  profoundly, 
whimpered  perfunctorily,  and  rolled  on  his  back. 

"Davy!"  Victoria  whispered,  startled,  as  David  came  in  and 
took  the  rocker.  "I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  roll  over! 
All  by  himself!" 

Davy  clasped  her  hand.     He  was  tired,  but  he  smiled. 

"How's  the  day  gone,  dear?" 

"Oh,  beautifully!  Miss  Gussy's  gone — did  mother  tell  you? 
I  was  down  for  lunch.     I  just  came  back  to  bed  to  be  good." 


424  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Want  the  lights?'5  He  looked  at  a  window  slashed  with 
raindrops  that  were  black  against  the  gray  twilight. 

"Oh,  no;  I  love  this!"  He  moved  the  rocker  so  that  he  could 
hold  her  comfortably  braced  against  his  shoulder.  They  fell 
into  wonderful  talk,  of  themselves,  of  their  lives  and  plans,  all 
to  be  readjusted  now  to  fit  the  sleeping  occupant  of  the  clothes 
basket.  They  remembered  their  wedding  eve,  the  ferry  place 
hot  in  autumn  sunshine,  the  long  memorable  talk  in  the  train. 
They  remembered  wonderful  winter  evenings,  wonderful  Feb- 
ruary walks  in  nipping  winds  and  past  chirping  frogs,  Easter 
with  roses  and  bridal  wreath,  and  the  hot  summer  nights 
under  River  Street's  lights  and  heavy  branches. 

And  to  Victoria,  the  breezy,  confident  Vicky  of  all  these  times 
seemed  the  ignorant  little  sister,  seemed  but  the  child,  indeed, 
of  the  tempered,  tender,  grateful  woman  who  was  lying  here, 
her  husband's  arm  about  her,  speaking  of  all  these  things. 
Would  she  want  ice-cream  sodas  downtown  and  Welsh  rarebits 
at  Anita's — after  Taffy?  It  was  hard  to  believe  it.  She  was 
possessed  only  by  a  passionate  desire  not  to  fail  them — her 
husband,  her  son,  Davy's  sister,  Davy's  mother. 

"I  heard  from  Dr.  Dunham  again  to-day,  Vick." 

"What  about?"  She  was  instantly  alert.  "I  suppose  Dr. 
Chatterton  hasn't  died  suddenly?" 

"No,  but  he's  not  well.  Asthmatic.  And  Dunham  says  he 
may  have  to  move  to  Southern  California " 

"Oh,  Davy,  and  that  nice  little  wife!  Just  as  they  were  set- 
tled in  the  new  house!"  Vicky  mused  for  a  minute.  Then  she 
said  steadily,  "He  wants  you!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Davy,  and  was  still. 

The  twilight  was  almost  darkness  now;  the  window  a  dull  gray 
square  in  solid  shadow.     Victoria  tightened  her  fingers. 

"When?     Immediately?" 

"No.     Not  until  June." 

She  twisted  the  knife  in  her  heart. 

"Definitely,  Davy?" 

"Well,  he  said  nothing  of  terms.  And  it  was  terms  we 
couldn't  arrange  before,  when  he  took  Chatterton." 

"Then  you  must  go,"  Victoria  said. 

The  baby  was  suddenly  wide  awake,  with  an  enraged  scream. 
His  mother  gathered  him  to  her  heart;  warmth,  dewy  sweetness, 
faint  flannelly  odours,  sodden  little  unresponsive  weight  and 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    425 

muffled  roars.  She  fed  him,  her  face  bent  down  to  watch  him 
as  she  lay  in  pillows. 

"I  don't  see  how  you — and  the  baby — could  make  it,"  Davy 
said  slowly.  "I  could  batch  it,  with  old  Dunham — you  could- 
n't. And  Mother  does  so  much — we'd  have  to  have  a  servant, 
probably  two." 

For  awhile  Victoria  did  not  answer. 

"I  was  thinking  of  that,  Davy,"  she  said  presently.  "But 
for  awhile  Taffy  and  I  would  stay  here!" 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  he  said  finally.  Victoria  watched  in  silence 
as  he  put  the  baby  back. 

"Is  Dunham  as  good  as  Newman?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"Dunham?  Oh,  he's  the  finest  in  the  business — in  the  world, 
I  guess.  He  took  his  intern  work  at  Johns  Hopkins — he  could 
have  had  the  surgery  in  the  Berlin  Hospital,  on  that  sort  of 
case " 

"And  that's  your  specialty,  Davy?" 

"Well,  it  was.  But  I'm  darned  glad  to  get  this  general  prac- 
tice, with  Boone.     Nothing  like  it!" 

He  sat  silent,  and  Victoria  was  silent.  Mary  came  upstairs; 
lighted  the  gas  in  the  adjoining  room;  hummed  as  she  changed  her 
street  clothes  to  a  cotton  gown.  A  shaft  of  light  struck  across 
the  clothes  basket.  Rain  streamed  steadily  down  the  window 
panes,  and  drummed  on  the  low  tin  roof.  Davy  leaned  toward 
the  basket,  and  put  his  big  finger  into  the  boy's  grasping  palm. 

"I  noticed  this  morning  that  his  skin  seems  to  be  peeling  off 
his  palms,"  he  said,  mildly  curious. 

"Your  mother  says  they  all  do  that — that's  just  lint,  from  his 
blankets!" 

"Lord,  it'll  be  good  to  have  you  around  again,  Vick,  coming 
into  the  office,  and  walking  home  with  me!"  said  Davy. 

"Vick!"  Mary  called,  "coming  down  to  supper?" 

"Oh,  certainly!  I'll  slide  into  my  wrapper."  She  pulled 
Davy's  face  down  for  a  kiss.  "My  smart  old  San  Francisco 
specialist!"  she  said. 

"Vick.  Don't  think  of  it  again.  It's  utterly  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  wouldn't  give  up  the  kid's  first  year  for  forty  San  Fran- 
ciscoes!"  David  got  up,  lighted  the  gas,  fumbled  among  wrap- 
pers and  shawls.     "Which  is  the  top  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  December,"  Vicky  thought.  "Six  months — it's 
only  twenty-four  weeks.     But  it's  his  chance.     He's  got  to  go!" 


426    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

And  tucked  up  on  the  sitting-room  lounge,  watching  him 
in  the  family  group  that  evening,  the  pattern  all  seemed  plain  to 
her.  The  irresponsible  joy  of  the  honeymoon  days,  the  soberer 
summer  with  its  approaching  responsibilities,  the  winter,  with 
Taffy,  and  now  the  new  hard  step — parting.  Life  couldn't  be 
just  ice-cream  sodas,  and  Anita's  parties,  and  Sunday  walks,  for 
David.  He  was  too  big  for  what  he  was  doing  now;  he  would 
hunger,  sooner  or  later,  for  a  wider  life.  Next  summer  wouldn't 
be  like  last  summer,  like  that  first  free  summer  of  their  marriage. 
Everything  would  change — Taffy,  and  Taffy's  father,  and  she 
must  change,  too. 

Presently  in  low  undertones,  she  began  to  place  the  plan  be- 
fore his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BERTIE'S  little  daughter  had  been  a  very  tiny  baby,  as 
alert  and  pathetic  and  wizened  as  a  little  monkey.  Lola 
had  elected  to  have  her  baptized  Maria  Anita  Dolores; 
she  was  never  called  anything  but  Nita.  She  had  been  prema- 
turely born,  Lola  refusing  even  to  get  out  of  bed  for  some  weeks 
before  the  event,  and  spending  the  time  in  sleep,  reading,  and 
long  conversations  with  her  aunts.  She  had  gone  back 
to  the  old  ranch-house  before  Christmas;  Nita  was  born  in 
February. 

Meanwhile  Lou,  sternly  quiet  and  unresponsive,  kept  house 
for  Bertie  in  Sausalito;  Bertie  going  to  Lola  and  the  baby  on 
Saturday,  and  Lou  joining  the  family  in  San  Rafael.  Bertie 
had  never  before  really  loved  his  youngest  sister;  Lou  had  al- 
ways been  too  cold  and  too  self-centred,  but  he  came  to  love 
her  now,  when  disillusionment  had  so  oddly  touched  them 
both. 

In  April,  when  Lola  returned  to  Sausalito,  Lou  assumed 
practical  charge  of  the  household.  Bertie  gave  her  what  money 
he  could,  certain  bills  she  presented  to  Lola,  who  loved  to  scrib- 
ble checks.  A  village  girl  came  in  for  the  heavier  housework; 
the  rest  Lou  managed.     Lola  did  nothing. 

The  baby  was  fortunately  quiet  and  manageable,  and  if  Lou, 
in  this  dark  time  of  humiliation  and  readjustment,  loved  any- 
thing, she  loved  the  tiny  Nita.  Nita  would  lie  for  hours  with 
her  dark  little  emaciated  fist  clenched  under  her  dark  little 
pointed  chin;  she  never  finished  a  bottle,  never  fretted  for  food, 
never  cried.  But  sometimes  over  her  olive  face  a  toothless 
shadow  of  a  smile  would  break,  when  Aunt  Lou  picked  her  up. 

The  crash  in  the  family  fortunes  came,  when  Bertie  had  to 
find  a  new  position.  He  finally  placed  himself  with  Le  Breton, 
the  big  paper  house  in  Sansom  Street,  his  salary  little  more  than 
half  its  former  size,  his  life  strangely  altered  from  what  it  had 
been  as  the  grandson  and  heir  of  old  Reuben  Crabtree.     Lola, 

427 


428    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

who  had  always  indifferently  handed  her  checks  to  Bertie,  went 
on  serenely  charging  and  wasting,  she  took  almost  no  interest 
in  the  change. 

But  Lou  showed  a  certain  silent  sympathy  with  her  brother, 
and  often  led  him  into  discussion  of  the  new  work  and  the  new 
environment.  She  would  place  the  lean  little  olive-skinned 
baby  in  his  arms,  at  night,  or  call  him  upstairs  to  see  Nita  moth- 
ering her  rag  baby. 

She  wrote  Vicky,  briefly,  that  she  wished  she  was  dead.  "But 
what's  the  difference?"  added  Lou,  drearily.  "Life  doesn't  last 
forever!"  Her  days  were  tiresome  rounds  of  domestic  drudgery, 
endless  dusting  and  washing  of  dishes,  making  of  beds,  market- 
ing, care  of  the  baby.  A  deep  and  an  intense  dislike  of  Lola 
darkened  and  made  even  less  endurable  everything  she  did. 

However,  it  was  better  than  home;  and  Lou,  at  twenty-six, 
knew  herself  to  be  an  old  maid  without  means,  and  therefore 
specially  blessed  in  having  a  living  at  all.  She  lived  with  Lola 
without  friction,  only  by  heroically  effacing  herself  in  every 
possible  way.  She  had  no  position  here,  the  very  slattern  in 
the  kitchen  was  more  independent,  but  she  did  not  know  what 
else  to  do.  Papa  and  Mama  were  having  trouble  enough  to 
keep  themselves  afloat  now. 

So  Lou  silently  worked  and  brooded,  wheeling  Nita  out  into 
the  side  garden  to  sleep  in  the  shade,  pouring  kettlefuls  of  hot 
water  over  the  pink  cups  and  the  green  dishes,  whipping  up  beds 
and  wiping  down  chair-legs.  Sometimes  there  was  a  maid, 
sometimes  none;  to  Lola  it  made  no  difference  whatever,  to  Lou 
it  was  the  vital  fact  of  life. 

The  house  was  too  large,  cold,  and  sunless:  they  all  hated  it. 
Lou  lived  with  the  baby  in  the  kitchen:  the  only  bright  room  in 
the  house.  Down  the  steep,  hilly  slopes  to  the  bay,  she  could 
look  through  gnarled  and  sprawling  oaks  to  blue  water;  she  could 
look  up  from  darning  or  reading,  and  see  the  ferry-boats  going  to 
and  fro  past  Alcatraz. 

She  got  up  early,  had  her  coffee  with  Bertie  at  half-past-seven; 
Nita,  in  the  high  chair,  would  suck  solemnly  on  a  crust.  Bertie 
departed;  Lou  gathered  up  breakfast  china,  and  carried  it  into 
the  kitchen.  The  maid  of  the  moment  would  have  started  to 
furnish  Lola's  tray;  Lou  would  finish  the  job,  and  carry  it  in  to 
Bertie's  wife.  Lola  would  roll  over,  perhaps  peevish  and  sallow, 
perhaps  good-natured,  with  colour  in  her  dark  cheeks. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    429 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  dreaming  again  about  that  same 
place,  on  a  beach,  and  that  same  man  that  was  riding  a  white 
horse  ?"  Lola  might  begin.  The  price  of  her  good-nature  was 
that  Lou  should  sit  leisurely  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  listen  to 
dreams,  to  imaginary  tales  of  Lola's  prowess  and  conquests,  for 
the  better  part  of  an  hour.  Nita  would  wail  from  the  dining 
room,  hammering  with  a  napkin  ring.  "Let  her  cry,"  her 
mother  would  say  with  an  impish  grin;  "it's  good  for  babies 
that  they  cry!" 

A  mischievous,  elfish  naughtiness  was  Lola's  favourite  pose; 
she  always  wanted  an  audience.  If  Lou  would  sit  there,  inter- 
polating half-shocked,  half-amused,  and  wholly  admiring  com- 
ments of  "Lola,  how  could  you!  Good  gracious,  what  a  gipsy 
you  were!  I  never  heard  of  such  a  flirt!"  then  Lola  was  happy. 
She  would  sit  up  in  bed,  hugging  her  knees,  her  narrow,  rather 
plain  face  glowing,  her  gaiety  almost  wild. 

But  if  Lou  was  practical,  in  a  hurry,  with  a  hundred  things 
to  do,  then  Lola  sulked,  sniffed,  and  too  often  vented  her  mood 
upon  Bertie  or  the  innocent  Nita.  She  would  slap  the  baby 
angrily,  and  when  Nita  shrieked,  slap  her  again.  They  had 
hideous  battles,  for  Lola's  rages  were  battles,  in  which  Bertie 
and  Lou  were  helpless,  and  these  rages  were  things  to  be  avoided 
at  any  cost.  At  the  slightest  provocation  she  was  enraged. 
Lola  screaming  that  she  would  make  the  baby  mind  her,  was  a 
Lola  that  Bertie  and  Lou  wished  never  to  see. 

So  Lou  drilled  herself  to  be  amused,  indulgent,  interested 
in  seeming,  at  least.  And  frequently  she  won  Lola  to 
sweet  and  merry  humours,  in  which  Lola  wanted  to  give  the 
baby  a  taste  of  cognac,  or  dress  the  little  creature  in  floods 
of  fine  Spanish  lace  and  rosettes  of  bright  blue  baby  ribbon, 
with  a  too  large  embroidered  cap  coasting  over  the  indifferent 
little  face. 

Bertie's  wife  was  an  egotist,  but  one  thing  in  the  world  in- 
terested her.  She  never  read  a  paper  or  anything  but  the 
frothiest  of  novels;  she  made  no  friends.  But  she  liked  to  go  to 
her  aunts,  because  they  and  the  servants  spoiled  her  and  talked 
incessantly  about  her,  and  she  loved  to  enter  such  shops  in  the 
city  as  bore  the  sign:  Habla  Aqui Espanol,  and  delight  and  amaze 
the  swarthy  clerks  with  her  liquid  Spanish. 

Once  or  twice,  when  Lou  had  superintended  a  carefully 
planned  company  dinner  for  Bertie's  men  friends,  with  "Tipo" 


430    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

wine  and  finger  bowls,  she  and  Bertie  had  had  oddly  embar- 
rassing experiences  with  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Bertie's  men 
friends,  warmed  by  wine  and  good  food,  had  been  inclined  to 
find  Lola  rather  fascinating;  her  chatter,  her  pretty  groping  for 
English  words,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  was  an  heiress.  And 
Lola  had  taken  the  centre  of  the  stage  confidently,  laughing, 
flirting  a  big  fan,  adding  extravagance  to  extravagance  in  her 
conversation. 

Bertie  had  asked  Lou  to  play  "El  Capitan"  for  them:  he 
loved — all  the  world  loved,  the  new  Sousa  marches.  But  before 
Lou  could  move,  Lola  had  flashed  to  the  piano,  to  rattle  through 
one  convent  "exhibition  piece"  after  another;  until,  indeed, 
everyone  was  bored  and  satiated  with  music.  Then  she  had 
sung,  with  tremendous  rolling  of  eyes  and  with  bursts  of  signi- 
ficant laughter.  And  finally,  on  one  uncomfortable  evening, 
she  had  danced  to  her  own  humming,  snapping  her  fingers, 
whirling  her  body  dizzily,  and  seriously  disarranging  her  clothes, 
so  that  the  exposure  of  brown  breast  and  lace  petticoat  highly 
discomfited  Lou  and  Bertie. 

The  men  had  clapped,  of  course.  But  they  had  not  come 
again;  the  pleasant  little  American-English  colony  of  Sausalito 
did  not  assimilate  Mrs.  Albert  Brewer,  although  the  grave  and 
dignified  Lou  was  always  welcome  to  reading  classes  and  moth- 
ers' meetings. 

"I  can't  understand  why  the  men  aren't  after  you!"  Lola 
would  say  to  Lou,  teasingly.  "Me — if  I  wasn't  married,  they 
would  be  like  the  bees  after  the  honey!  In  Buenos  Aires — do 
you  think  a  girl  can  get  to  be  as  old  as  you  are  and  not  marry? 
She  must  enter  the  convent  if  she  is  to  do  like  that!" 

"I'll  surprise  you,  one  of  these  days,"  Lou  would  answer  smil- 
ing, with  the  patience  she  would  have  shown  to  a  child  of  four. 
She  tried  to  remind  herself  of  Lola's  good  points;  she  was  gener- 
ous, she  was  absolutely  indifferent  to  money,  she  adored  Bertie. 
And  she  was  amazingly  inexacting;  if  the  morning  came  when 
Lou  simply  could  not  force  herself  to  carry  in  the  breakfast 
tray,  Lola  did  not  complain;  meals  could  be  at  any  hour,  any 
food  was  satisfying. 

Not  long  after  Nita's  first  birthday,  on  a  warm,  balmy  Satur- 
day morning  in  Holy  Week,  they  all  went  up  to  the  ranch.  Two 
of  the  old  Seiioritas  had  died  and  been  buried  a  few  weeks  be- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  431 

fore;  Lola  had  grieved  passionately  and  violently,  but  she  was 
in  great  spirits  to-day,  and  little  Nita  very  engaging  in  white 
stockings  and  caped  coat.  Lou  and  Bertie  were  later  to  drive 
to  their  mother's  house  for  Sunday  supper;  they  were  accom- 
panying Lola  and  the  baby  merely  as  escort  to-day. 

Lola's  uncle,  the  generous  source  of  her  large  income,  had  come 
to  California  for  the  first  visit  in  twenty  years,  just  in  time  to 
see  his  aunts  again,  and  was  lingering  on  at  the  ranch;  a  dark- 
skinned,  gray-moustached  old  cavalier  who  looked  much  more 
than  his  fifty  years.  He  murmured  Spanish  with  the  surviving 
Sefioritas,  picked  his  teeth  with  a  beautifully  chased  ivory  and 
silver  pick,  smoked  without  ceasing,  ate  and  drank  heartily, 
and  in  three  weeks  had  not  been  a  hundred  feet  from  the  house* 

The  arriving  Brewers  had  the  usual  welcome:  tears,  laughter, 
shrieked  blessings.  Refugio  and  'Ception  rarely  moved  from 
their  chairs  now;  the  old  dogs,  or  their  descendants,  waddled 
lazily  about,  the  room  smelled  of  them. 

Senor  Pio  Tasheira  seemed  pleased  to  see  his  niece,  and 
played  amiably  with  the  baby.  Lola  as  usual  collapsed;  she 
changed  her  clothes  for  a  loose  wrapper,  and  sank  into  a  deep 
chair,  in  the  midst  of  her  relatives.  Bertie  and  Lou,  when  the 
exemplary  baby  was  asleep,  walked  over  the  ranch  in  the  sweet 
spring  afternoon.  Green  fresh  grass  was  high,  the  fruit  trees 
were  in  leaf.  Ascension  lilies  were  blooming  in  the  neglected 
garden.  Bertie  and  Lou  poked  over  the  sheds  and  outhouses, 
peeped  into  the  old  casa,  stepped  cautiously  past  chicken  yards 
and  pig  pens,  and  skirted  once  more  the  stiff,  churned  black 
mud  of  the  cow  corral.  They  could  look  down,  hanging  on  the 
rail  fence  in  the  shade  of  the  peppers,  to  the  file  of  gaunt  eucalyp- 
tus marching  to  the  bay.  The  marshes  were  green  to-day,  the 
water  beyond  them  a  hazy  blue.  Back  of  all  were  the  smooth 
curves  of  the  hills.  To  the  south,  beyond  the  bay,  San  Francisco 
lay  in  a  tangle  of  smoke  and  of  sun  dazzle,  on  roof-covered  hills. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  Bertie  mused;  "I  remember  coming  here 
to  Ruy  da  Sa's  funeral " 

"I  remember  coming  here  for  a  walk  with  Rudy  and  Nelly 
and  Vick  and  Davy,  before  any  of  them  were  married,"  Lou  said. 

For  a  few  minutes  they  were  silent;  then  Bertie  said  again: 

"It's  funny.  I  mean  the  way  life  goes,"  he  added  hastily. 
f  I  remember  seeing  Lola  that  day.  But  I  was  in  love  with  some- 
body else  then." 


432  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Kitty!"  Lou  supplied. 

"Yes,  Kitty.  She  married  Neil,  you  know.  She  has  two 
kids.     I  saw  her  the  other  day — she's  awfully  nice " 

"But  why  didn't  you  marry  her,  Bertie?" 

"Oh,  Mama,  I  guess.  Mama  made  me  promise  once  not  to 
see  her  for  two  months.  And  Papa  talked  to  me  about  it,  on  the 
boat,  and  said  I  would  always  regret  it."  Bertie  flung  away 
his  cigarette.  "I  used  to  go  to  sleep  at  night,"  he  confessed, 
"thinking  how  nice  it'd  be  if  Mama  met  her  somewhere  by  ac- 
cident, and  Kitty  did  her  some  favour — don't  you  know?" 

"I  know     .     .     ."     Lou  said  thoughtfully. 

"Lola — she's  all  right,"  Bertie  said  suddenly.  "She  has  been 
a  little  spoiled,  I  guess;  she's  young.  And  then  having  a  baby 
is  a  good  deal  of  a  strain." 

"Having  hers  wasn't,"  Lou  countered  flatly.  "Poor  little 
Nita  didn't  weigh  four  pounds.  And  Vick's  boy  weighed 
eleven!" 

"Lou,  were  you  ever  in  love?"  Bertie  asked,  half-laughing. 

"No.  And  never  will  be!"  his  sister  answered  promptly 
and  unemotionally. 

"Not  even  with  Palmer?" 

"Heavens,  no!" 

They  hung  on  the  rail  fence,  staring  down  at  the  bay  and  th< 
hills,  past  the  file  of  eucalyptus. 

"It's  funny,"  Bertie  said  again,  after  a  pause. 

Senor  Tasheira  was  on  the  porch  as  they  came  in;  Lou  sal 
down  on  a  gaunt  old  wicker  rocker;  Bertie  went  in  to  his  wife. 

"Don't  you  ever  walk,  Senor  Tasheira?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  no.  Sometimes  I  ride,  yes.  But  nol 
the  walks!" 

"You've  been  to  our  beautiful  park  and  the  seal  rocks,  ii 
San  Francisco?"  Lou  asked. 

"Not  since  I  was  the  child.     They  do  not  interest  me." 

"Oh,  come!"  protested  Lou.  "We  cannot  let  you  go  bacl 
to  South  America  without  at  least  showing  you  how  many  beau- 
ties we  have.     Some  day  I  shall  take  you  for  a  day's  trip." 

"You  couldn't  get  him  to  go  wirh  you  for  money!"  Lola  said, 
coming  out.  Her  uncle  gave  her  his  chair,  and  kissed  her  finger- 
tips.    Lou's  face  grew  red. 

"Sometimes  when  the  beautiful  young  lady  take  me  on  a  trip 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE     433 

it  is  the  money  she  make  love  to,  and  not  me!"  remarked  the 
Argentinian,  laughing. 

"Oh,  what  a  terribly  ungallant  thing  to  say!"  Lou  exclaimed 
lightly.     "Lola,  why  don't  you  scold  him?" 

"The  old  man  does  not  make  to  be  always  polite,"  Pio  said, 
pleased  with  his  English. 

"Don't  call  yourself  old!"  Lou  protested.  "You  are  not 
more  than  forty!" 

"More  than  that!"  he  said,  smiling  in  gratification. 

Lola,  with  a  scornful  look  at  Lou,  jabbered  to  him  in 
Spanish. 

"I  told  him  that  you  knew  perfectly  well  he  was  fifty-one," 
she  said  to  Lou.     "We  were  speaking  of  it  in  the  train!" 

"You  aren't,"  Lou  said  to  the  man.  Seiior  Tasheira  smiled, 
shrugged,  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Conversation  died,  and  after 
a  few  minutes,  Lou,  humming  lightly,  went  into  the  house  to 
change  her  dress  for  dinner. 

At  dinner  he  sat  between  Miss  Refugio  and  Lola,  but  Lou 
was  opposite,  and  she  watched  him  with  bright,  sympathetic 
eyes.  As  the  meal  warmed,  with  wine  and  talk,  she  seemed  to 
hear  everything  he  had  to  say.  And  finally,  leaning  across 
Bertie,  she  said: 

"Don't  forget  that  you  said  we  were  to  go  to  the  Cliff  House 
some  day,  Senor  Tasheira!" 

"Oh,  no,  Senorita,  it  was  you  who  said  that!"  he  countered 
quickly,  his  shrewd  eyes  dancing.  And  he  turned  to  his  aunt 
with  some  words  in  Spanish.  Bertie  glanced  quickly  at  Lou, 
but  decided  that  he  must  be  mistaken  as  to  the  exact  purport 
of  the  words,  for  Lou  was  placidly  continuing  her  tamale.  But 
later,  when  Lou  was  at  the  piano,  Pio  sauntered  over  to  it.  Lou 
went  through  the  long  window  to  the  narrow  porch,  and  Pio 
followed  her. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  as  handsome  as  you  are,  all 
alone,"  Lou  said  to  him  immediately,  in  a  low  tone.  "You 
are  too  young  and  too  good  looking  not  to  have  a  wife  and  a 
home!" 

"And  my  money,  he  is  good  looking,  too,  is  that  it?"  Pio 
laughed,  excited  with  wine,  and  enjoying  this  fencing  with 
Bertie's  pretty  sister. 

"Someone  to  travel  with — to  talk  to;  someone  to  whom  you 
would  be  the  whole  world!"  Lou  murmured,  standing  at  the  rail, 


434  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

with  the  man  close  behind  her.  "What  good  does  your  money- 
do  you  ?  You  need  someone  to  entertain  your  friends,  someone 
to  make  you  a  home " 

"You  are  trying  to  make  flirtation  with  me,  and  I  don't  like 
that  you  should  do  that!"  Pio  interrupted,  uneasily. 

"Why  should  I  flirt  with  you?"  Lou  asked,  glancing  over  a 
bare  shoulder,  below  which  her  round,  firm  arm  disappeared  into 
an  enormous  pufFof  stiffened  silk.  Her  dark  eyes  glinted  in  the 
spring  dusk. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shall,  for  I  do  not  wish  that  I  shall 
ever    marry,  me.     I  am  the  bachelor!"  Pio  exclaimed. 

"Not  me,  but  some  other  woman,"  Lou  conceded  negligently. 
"There  must  be  a  great  many  pretty  women  in  the  Argentine!" 

"Because  they  marry  the  money,  not  me!"  he  said,  angrily. 

"A  wife,   a  home,   someone  to   talk   to,   someone  to    buy 

pretty  things   for,   and   have  other   men   admire "     Lou 

persisted. 

"Tio  Pio!"  Lola  laughed,  coming  out  the  hall  door,  suspicious 
eyes  on  Lou.  He  caught  at  her  arm  with  a  little  breath  of  re- 
lief, and  did  not  leave  her  again  that  evening. 

But  the  next  day,  when  Bertie  and  Lou  were  going  ofF  in  the 
phaeton,  for  supper  with  their  mother,  Senor  Tasheira  was  on 
the  porch,  even  though  it  was  the  hour  of  the  sacred  siesta,  to 
say  a  parting  word. 

"Me — I  shall  bring  Lola  and  the  baby  home  on  the  Tuesday," 
he  said. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Pio!"  Bertie  said.     Lou  laughed. 

"'Uncle'  sounds  too  old!"  she  said.  "Shall  I  see  you  to- 
morrow ? " 

"No,  because  I  shall  send  Carlotta  up  from  the  train,"  he 
answered.  "  I  shall  wait  at  the  station.  I  am  too  old  for  climb- 
ing hills!" 

"And  what  about  our  little  day  in  the  city?"  Lou  asked, 
pleasantly  persuasive.  "There's  Chinatown — and  then  we 
might  have  a  little  bite  of  lunch,  and  then  drive  out  to  the 
cliff!" 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Senorita,  but  I  see  him  long  ago,  and 
I  do  not  wish  that  I  shall  see  him  again!" 

"Well,  I'll  say  Friday,  just  in  case  you  change  your  mind!" 
said  Lou.  "Friday  on  the  ten  o'clock  boat.  And  this  is  my 
day,  you  know — you  will  be  my  guest!" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         435 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  come!" 

"Lou!"  Bertie  shouted,  from  the  phaeton  seat. 

"I'm  coming! — I'll  be  on  the  ten  o'clock  boat,  anyway!" 
Lou  murmured,  running  down  the  steps. 

"Do  you  like  him,  Lou?"  Bertie  asked  curiously,  as  the  mare 
lurched  on  her  way.  Lou  laughed  heartily,  with  sudden  colour. 
But  she  made  no  other  answer. 

They  reached  the  Brewer  house  at  five  o'clock,  and  were  duly 
kissed  and  welcomed.  Tina,  in  a  trailing  gray  challis,  was  set- 
ting the  supper  table;  May  and  Fanny  were  on  the  side  porch; 
Stephen  was  whittling  a  "Fifteen  Puzzle"  for  little  Bobo.  Old 
Reuben,  it  appeared,  had  just  been  taken  upstairs,  and  it  would 
be  better  not  to  disturb  him.  He  sometimes  slept  through  all 
the  dark  hours  unbrokenly. 

"Carra  has  a  cot  in  his  room;  dear,  devoted  old  woman,  I 
don't  think  she'll  long  survive  him!"  said  May.  "Think  of  it, 
Lou.  eighty-four  this  year!" 

"Can't  we  start  a  scandal  between  him  and  Carra?"  Bertie 
said,  with  his  boyish  laugh.  Fanny  shot  him  a  sudden  glance, 
but  nobody  else  paid  any  attention;  it  was  a  recognized  fact 
now  that  Bertie  was  always  light-hearted  on  these  visits  at 
home. 

"And  how's  Lola,  dear?"  May  pursued  dutifully.  "And  the 
dear  little  baby?" 

"Lovely!  Lola's  always  saying  that  she's  coming  to  see  you, 
Mama,  but  you  know  how  hard  it  is.  She's  busy "  Ber- 
tie's eye  met  Lou's  quiet,  reflective  look,  and  he  amended  it 
quickly,  "or  she  thinks  she  is!" 

"  Some  talk  of  Davy  Dudley  coming  down  to  practise  with  that 
Doctor  Dunham!"  Fanny  said,  beating  her  nose.  "I  tell  May 
that  Vicky'd  be  crazy  to  let  him.  What  does  he  know  about 
operations,  anyway!  He's  much  better  off  in  a  small  town,  if 
you  ask  me!" 

"I  wrote  her  that  they  must  use  their  own  judgment,"  May 
said,  mildly,  "but  that  on  no  account  ought  a  man  leave  his 
wife  and  baby,  even  for  a  time!  Her  baby  is  a  fine-looking 
child — Tina's  got  the  picture  in  the  dining  room,  I  guess!" 

Lou  went  in  to  find  her  sister,  busy  among  the  familiar  chairs 
and  plates;  the  old  spoon  mug,  the  old  napkin  rings. 

"Tina — the  table  looks  sweet!     Vernon  coming?" 


436    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Well,  he  is,  as  it  happens,"  Tina  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
"But  I  didn't  put  the  flowers  on  for  that!" 

"I  hope  that  if  he  asks  you,  you'll  be  sensible,  Tina,"  Lou 
suggested,  seated,  and  nibbling  cheese. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  He's  not  apt  to  ask  me"  Tina  said  airily. 
"I  assure  you  that  I  don't  count — any  more!  It's  Florence, 
and  dear  Aunt  Florrie — and  presents — I  wish  you  could  see  the 
White  House  boxes  of  clothes  for  Alma!" 

"  Mrs.  Lundeen  ? "  Lou  said  reflectively.     "  Is  she  rich,  Teen  ? " 

"Oh,  rich !  She  has  one  of  the  hotel  cottages,  and  everything. 
When  I  think  of  Grace,"  Tina  added,  beginning  to  throw  knives 
about  recklessly,  and  with  a  sort  of  harsh  brightness  that  some- 
how suggested  Fanny,  "it  just  makes  me  sick  !  She's  there,  at 
the  Parsonage,  all  the  time,  and  of  course  she  has  the  baby — 
idolizes  her.  I  notice  she  wasn't  so  awfully  nice  to  Grace,  though ! 
There  wasn't  so  much  talk  of  presents  and  Aunt  Florrie  then  ! 
I  suppose  Vernon  thinks  that  if  he  could  land  a  rich  widow  it 
would  all  be  smooth  sailing — well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  he 
does!  I  just  hope  he  does!  He'll  see — shh-shh — that's  the 
gate!" 

Lou  had  not  seen  the  clergyman  since  his  bereavement  in 
January.  She  went  out  to  say  a  few  sympathetic  words  to 
him. 

"He  has  set  us  all  an  example  in  bravery!"  May  said,  moth- 
erly and  smiling. 

"No,  no,"  Vernon  Yelland  quickly  disclaimed  it.  "No,  but 
I  was  the  closest  friend  and  companion  of  a  brave  and  noble 
heart  for  five  years,  Lou,"  he  added,  simply  and  gravely,  "and 
what  can  I  be  but  brave?" 

And  he  went  in,  with  the  intimacy  of  an  old  friend,  to  have 
a  few  minutes  with  Tina  before  supper  began. 

Tina  bloomed  into  her  prettiest  aspect  as  she  took  her  place 
beside  him. 

"Vernon,  I  was  thinking "  she  began,  over  the  salad. 

"Well,  that's  edifying!"  he  commented,  with  a  grave  smile. 
Everybody  laughed. 

"No,  but  I  was  thinking  I  might  come  in  to  see  you  about  the 
reredos  to-morrow,"  the  girl  suggested,  flushing  happily. 

"To-morrow — Monday,  h'm!"  he  mused.  "I  believe  my 
little  people  have  a  plan  afoot  for  a  picnic  to-morrow,"  he  re- 
membered, his  eyes  narrowed  smilingly  on  space.     "I  try  to  be 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    437 

with  them — now.  And  I  heard  a  great  deal  to-day  about 
basket-luncheons — I  don't  know  quite  what.  But  how  is  Tues- 
day?" 

Tina,  limp,  lifeless,  agreed  to  Tuesday. 

Louisianna  Brewer  walked  on  to  the  ten  o'clock  boat  on 
Friday  morning  without  a  backward  glance.  It  was  an  unus- 
ually warm  morning,  and  the  girl  was  charming  in  a  flaring  skirt 
of  white  duck,  trimly  drawn  in  to  the  white  satin  belt  that 
neatly  finished  her  pink  shirtwaist.  Her  hat  was  a  dashing, 
rough-edged  sailor,  with  a  pink  band,  and  a  black  chatelaine  bag 
was  secured  to  her  belt  by  its  metal  clasp.  In  the  bag  was 
her  usual  shopping  list.  "Shoes,  Nolan  and  Descalso,  paper, 
Coopers,  library  book." 

She  opened  a  book:  "The  Duchess,"  by  "The  Duchess,"  and 
selecting  a  seat  in  the  shade,  against  the  cabin  wall,  composed 
herself  quietly  to  read. 

Groups  passed  her,  shopping  women,  men  whose  hours  were 
those  of  ease  and  leisure.     A  man  alone 

"Good  morning,  Senorita!" 

Lou  closed  the  book;  smiled  a  wise  smile.  She  slightly 
shifted  the  white  duck  skirt  so  that  he  might  sit  beside  her. 

They  wandered  through  noisy,  crowded,  odorous,  fascinating 
Chinatown,  they  lunched  in  the  Palace  Grill.  And  in  the  after- 
noon they  drove  out  through  the  Park. 

Lou  did  not  have  much  to  say;  she  asked  an  occasional  ques- 
tion, smiled  an  occasional  rebuke.  Parting  with  her  companion 
in  Sausalito,  in  the  mellow  lights  and  shadows  of  five  o'clock,  she 
made  no  further  attempt  at  an  engagement. 

She  knew  it  was  not  necessary.  She  knew  that  the  memory 
of  this  day's  companionship  would  accompany  Pio  Tasheira  to 
the  lonely  ranch,  that  the  picture  of  a  fresh,  erect  young  figure 
in  duck  and  pink  gingham  would  contrast  itself  over  and  over 
again  with  the  bulgy  old  figures  and  oily  old  faces  of  Refugio 
and  'Ception. 

Lola  was  furious  with  her  when  she  reached  home. 

"That  girl  didn't  come  back,  and  there's  not  one  bit  of  butter 
in  this  whole  house " 

"I  brought  the  butter!"  Lou  was  rapidly  divesting  herself 
of  best  clothes.  "You  sweet  lamb!"  she  murmured,  catching  up 
Nita's  wiry  and  agile  little  form.     "I'll  manage  all  this,  Lolita. 


438    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

You  set  the  table — if  you  want  to.  Whatever  became  of  Carrie  ? 
How  have  you  done  your  hair?" 

" That's  the  real  Spanish  fashion!"  Lolita,  instantly  pacified, 
stated  laughingly.  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me?"  she  asked, 
catching  up  a  fan,  and  giving  Lou  a  flirtatious  glance  over  it. 
"Oh,  what  a  devil  I  was  in  school!  Those  poor  nuns!  I  used 
to  dress  up  like  this " 

Lou  lifted  a  stove-lid,  began  to  pick  out  smoking  charred 
kindling  and  half-burned  paper.  The  wretched  thing  was  draw- 
ing badly  again 

A  night  or  two  later  Pio  Tasheira  came  to  dinner,  driving  one 
of  the  Senorita's  old  horses  down  from  the  ranch.  Lola  was  in 
a  contrary  mood  this  evening,  would  not  be  gracious,  and  went 
early  to  bed.  Bertie,  worried  by  her  temper,  followed  her.  But 
Lou  and  Pio  murmured  over  the  piano  for  half  an  hour  longer, 
and  then  sat  talking  on  the  porch  for  a  full  hour  after  that.  Lola 
was  awakened  by  the  clatter  and  rattle  of  the  departing  phaeton, 
and  next  morning  was  curious  and  cross. 

"What  on  earth  were  you  and  Uncle  Pio  talking  about?"  she 
queried. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Lou's  tone  was  indifferent.  But  when 
Pio  arrived  for  supper  again  on  the  following  Friday  night,  tired 
from  a  day  in  town  exactly  as  Lou  was  tired  from  a  day  in  town, 
Lola's  dark  and  incredulous  suspicions  were  suddenly  aroused. 
Had  they  met  in  town  ?  she  asked. 

Uncle  Pio  pursed  his  lips,  shook  his  head. 

"We  meet  on  the  boat!"  he  presently  announced,  with  every 
sign  of  secret  mischief. 

"Coming  or  going?"  Lola  further  inquired,  too  cross  to  be 
diplomatic.  Again  Pio  looked  mysterious,  but  he  did  not  an- 
swer her. 

"Look  here,  this  some  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition  now!"  he 
commented  chuckling. 

Lola  determined  to  take  a  hand  in  this  matter  herself.  The 
next  time  she  had  her  uncle  to  herself,  which  was  more  than  a 
fortnight  later,  she  casually  took  occasion  to  tell  him  of  Lou's 
unfortunate  experience  with  Howard  Palmer,  and  of  her  own 
impression  that  Lou  was  anxious  to  get  married,  and  would  not 
mind  making  a  fool  of  any  old  man  she  could  find. 

But  Lou  had  long  before  this  confidentially  informed  Pio 
of  the  Palmer  episode,  and  had  learned  in  return  of  a  beautiful 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  439 

married  woman  in  Rosarios,  who  had  tried  to  involve  Pio  in 
some  wretched  implications,  and  had  more  than  partially  suc- 
ceeded. So  that  he  listened  to  his  alarmed  and  anxious  niece 
only  with  his  cryptic  and  Latin  smile;  deeply  offended  by  her  use 
of  the  word  "old  "  but  showing  no  trace  of  anything  but  his  usual 
insouciant  calm. 

Lou,  with  her  soft,  light-brown  hair,  her  pink  cheeks,  her 
serene  smile,  looked  more  attractive  than  ever  to  him,  as  she 
came  in  with  Nita,  interrupting  this  conversation,  and  leaving 
the  darkly  flushed  and  trembling  Lola  no  course  but  to  retire 
from  the  field. 

Lou  kept  her  own  counsel,  as  she  always  had,  receiving  Pio's 
flowers  with  no  comment  for  the  frantically  curious  Lola,  de- 
stroying the  Argentinian's  letters  as  soon  as  they  were  read.  She 
went  to  town,  as  always,  on  Fridays,  and,  as  always,  had  noth- 
ing to  say  at  the  supper  table  of  her  day's  employment.  Lou 
began  to  speed  the  plans  for  her  uncle's  return  to  South  America. 
It  could  not  be — it  could  not  be — that  there  was  anything  seri- 
ous in  this  ridiculous  business!  He  was  just  playing  with  Lou, 
as  Howard  Palmer  had  played! 

One  brilliant  June  morning,  when  Lou  brought  Bertie 
the  morning  paper,  to  enjoy  with  his  coffee,  she  pointed  out  a 
glaring  headline  that  occupied  a  conspicuous  place  on  the 
first  page. 

"Young  Grass  Widow — Childless — Kidnaps  Clergyman's 
Babe — "  he  skimmed  hastily.  "Florence  Lundeen  Asserts 
Her  Love  for  Yelland  Child.  Wanted  Merely  Something  to 
Play  With,  Father's  Love-making  Unwelcome,  Asserts  Pretty 
Ex-wife  of  Harry  Lundeen." 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  ejaculated  Bertie  laughing. 

"No,  but  read  it,  Bertie!" 

"'Residents  of  San  Rafael  are  deeply  interested  in  the  alleged 
abduction  of  Baby  Alma  Yelland  by  pretty  Florence  Under- 
wood Lundeen,'"  Bertie  read.  "'Mrs.  Lundeen's  devotion,  to 
the  child  has  dated  since  its  birth,  and  the  mother's  death,  last 
January.  Baby  Alma  has  made  her  home  with  the  wealthy 
young  widow,  at  the  Hotel,  until  last  Wednesday,  when  Mrs. 
Lundeen,  according  to  assertions  made  by  the  child's  father,  on 
her  own  initiative  removed  the  baby  to  her  summer  cottage  at 
Fallen  Leaf  Lake.     The  father,  the  Reverend  Vernon  Yelland, 


44o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

immediately  placed  the  case  before  the  authorities,  who  sent 
for  the  child.' 

"'Mrs.  Lundeen,  upon  being  approached  last  evening  by 
Deputy  Sheriff  George  T.  Bonnet,  of  Marin  County,  admitted 
that  she  had  carried  away  Baby  Alma  without  the  father's  con- 
sent. 

" c "I  love  the  child,"  she  asserted,  "but  I  was  not  interested  in 
the  father's  love-making,  and  was  practically  driven  away  from 
San  Rafael  by  his  attentions." 

"'  Baby  Alma  is  to  be  restored  to  her  father  to-day.' 

"Well,  that — "  began  Bertie,  with  deep  relish,  "that  will 
about  cook  our  dear  Vernon  as  far  as  Tina's  concerned!     What 


possesses  women  to  fall  for  those  clergymen " 

"Poor  old  Teen!"  Lou  smiled.     "That's  the  last  straw!     But 

she'll  have  some  excuse  ready — you'll  see!" 

And  she  expressed  no  surprise  when  a  busy,  important  ecstatic 

letter  arrived  from  Tina,  three  or  four  days  later. 


"Lou  darling,"  Tina  wrote,  "you  will  have  seen  the  terrible  behaviour  of  Mrs. 
Lundeen  described  in  the  papers;  our  darling  Alma  was  safely  returned  to  us 
on  Saturday  afternoon,  Vernon  and  I  meeting  the  boat  and  bringing  her  straight 
to  Mama,  where  the  other  dear  children  were  awaiting.  What  a  meeting,  as 
their  devoted  father  gathered  them  together  again!  Vernon  is  splendid  about 
Florence's  lies  and  insinuations;  he  says  he  cannot  imagine  what  he  ever  said 
or  did  to  give  her  any  impression  except  that  his  first  thought  was  for  the  chil- 
dren's good. 

"And  now,  dear,  for  my  happy  news,  happiness  strangely  mingled  with 
sorrow,  for  the  memory  of  Grace  must  always  be  one  of  the  precious  things  of 
life.  It  is  only  six  months  since  our  angel  left  us,  yet,  as  Vernon'-  says,  in  the 
case  of  small  children  there  must  be  special  laws,  and  this  last  disgraceful  ex- 
perience has  taught  him  how  difficult  his  pathway  is — alone.  Lou,  dear, 
after  next  Monday,  it  is  not  to  be  alone.  I  have  always  loved  him  as  a  brother, 
and  now  that  love  is  something  deeper  and  truer  than  life  itself.  We  feel  that 
the  right  and  dignified  thing  to  do  is  to  stand  before  the  world  in  all  truth  and 
honour  as  man  and  wife,  and  then  unscrupulous  adventuresses  like  Mrs.  L. 
cannot  touch  him.  To  the  curious  press  he  will  give  this  announcement, 
hushing  up  the  Mrs.  L.  affair  once  and  for  all. 

"My  wedding  is  to  be  a  very  simple  one,  under  the  trees  of  the  old  home, 
with  Papa  to  give  me  away,  and  the  white  gown  that  I  was  already  making,  my 
wedding  dress.  And  my  wedding  trip  will  be  only  to  the  dear  new  home  that 
has  been  like  a  second  home  to  me  for  so  many  years! 

"Vernon  is — not  happy,  he  says,  but  deeply,  and  holily,  content.  Grace 
would  have  wished  this,  we  both  feel.  And  to  Papa  and  Mama  he  says  that 
they  do  not  so  much  lose  a  daughter  as  gain  a  son.  Dear  Reverend  Harvey 
Manson,  who  married  Grace  and  Vernon,  will  come  down  from  Sacramento  to 
marry  us." 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    441 

Lou  read  the  letter  aloud  to  Bertie  and  Lola,  half-laughing, 
half-sympathetic. 

"I  ought  to  go  home  to  help  them  out,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"I'd  like  to!"  Bertie  had  a  sudden  pangof  homesickness  for 
Mama  and  the  girls,  for  the  old  days  of  spoiling  and  freedom. 

Lola  seized  upon  this  pretext  eagerly.  She  wanted  to  go 
to  the  ranch  anyway;  Tia  Refugio  was  seriously  ill,  and  Uncle 
Pio — she  shot  a  glance  at  Lou — would  soon  be  going  away  again. 
Bertie  and  Lou  could  spend  a  week  or  ten  days  at  home,  and  she 
would  visit  her  aunts. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SO  LOU  and  Bertie,  in  unwonted  holiday  spirits,  took  Nita 
to  her  grandfather's  house,  to  share  the  excitements  of 
Aunt  Tina's  wedding.  The  summer  sun  was  shining 
warmly  down  upon  the  shabby  old  mansion  when  they  came  in 
at  the  peeled  and  weather-worn  gate. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  slanting  shafts  of  light  came  down 
through  willow  and  pepper  trees,  the  air  was  sweet  with  roses, 
dust,  and  watered  grass.  Bobo  and  Stephen  were  watering  and 
raking  busily;  they  called  and  waved  a  welcome,  and  little  Nita's 
grandfather  led  her  about  admiringly  from  one  garden  sight  to 
another,  his  big  figure  stooped  sideways  to  accommodate  her 
fairy-like  smallness.  Nita  looked  solemnly  down  at  Bobo's 
bantam  hen  and  up  at  the  wooden  horse's  head  over  the  old 
stable  door.  Bobo  pushed  open  the  old  entrance  and  she 
peeped  into  bare  gloom  sweetly  scented  with  dry  grain  and 
mysterious  with  the  scurry  of  rats.  After  awhile  she  whispered 
that  she  wanted  "Doo-doo!"  and  her  dark  little  face  twisted 
with  agonized  tears. 

"I  know,  Uncle  Steve!"  Bobo  said  eagerly.  "She  calls  Lou 
'  Doo-doo ' ! "  And  he  bundled  her  into  his  awkward,  short  little 
arms,  her  brief  skirts  twisted  about  her  bare  little  brown  knees* 
and  carried  her,  panting  manfully,  in  to  Lou. 

Lou  was  in  the  very  centre  of  delicious  womanly  conference. 
Mis'  Underwood  was  there,  fitting  Tina  to  a  blue  sateen;  her  cold 
scissors  touching  the  warm  smooth  flesh  of  Tina's  arm.  Fanny 
was  idle  at  the  sewing  machine;  May  in  a  rocker  with  a  lapful 
of  white  sewing.  They  were  upstairs,  in  the  room  Vick  and  Lou 
had  shared  for  so  many  years;  it  was  a  scene  of  utter  confusion 
now.  On  the  bed,  in  a  jumble  of  new  table  linen,  and  new  night- 
gowns, and  new  hat  box,  were  two  or  three  small  green  boxes 
and  dark-red  baize  bags,  from  Shreves,  holding  the  Wesley's 
pie  knife,  and  the  Baker's  carvers,  and  the  lovely  spoons  from 
Fanny  and  Frank  Pembroke.     Tina,  looking  over  a  bare  shoul- 

442 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    443 

der,  called  Lou's  attention  to  the  Persons'  chocolate  set  and  the 
tongs  from  Alice  and  Frank  Babcock. 

The  bride  elect  was  radiant,  with  a  sort  of  solemn  and  intense 
radiance  sacred  to  this  time  alone.  She  must  remember  every- 
thing; she  must  think  for  everyone;  she  must  always  be  serene 
and  sweet.  Arriving  friends  kissed  her,  and  the  admiring  family 
gathered  about  in  deep  interest  whenever  a  present  or  a  letter 
arrived.  Tina's  look  was  brightly  dutiful.  "Yes,  Mama  dear? 
What  is  it,  Papa  darling?"  her  sweet  voice  echoed  all  day.  She 
tripped  happily  to  and  fro,  and  always  ready  with  a  smile  that 
was  close  to  tears,  or  the  hint  of  tears  that  a  smile  made  sweet, 
when  the  approaching  change  was  mentioned. 

"I've  written  Nelly,  at  San  Bruno,  and  Alice,  and  I  do  hope 
Vick  can  come  down!"  she  told  Lou.  "It's  such  a  poor  little 
wedding,  as  far  as  money  and  style  go,  that  I  want  it  rich  in 
love!" 

"Who  but  my  Tina  would  say  that?"  May  said,  fondly.  Tina, 
freed  from  the  dressmaker,  ran  to  kneel  beside  her,  with  a  little 
emotion. 

"Mama  dearest,  you  praise  me  too  much!" 

"Ah,  no,  I  don't!"  May  said,  sighing  heavily,  as  she  pushed 
back  the  fair,  rather  lifeless  hair.  "Well,  you're  not  going  very 
far  from  poor  Mama!"  she  added,  smiling  through  tears. 

"And  you  already  love  my  Vernon,  don't  you?"  Tina 
asked  coquettishly.     "She  flirts  with  him!"  she  told  Lou. 

"I  kind  of  think  he  likes  his  poor  old  mother-in-law,"  May 
confessed,  smiling.  "Hold  that  up  against  yourself,  dear. 
Lou,  is  that  long  enough  ?" 

"There,  that's  your  wedding  nighty!"  Fanny  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, adding  a  beribboned  garment  to  a  snowy  heap.  "Far 
and  away  the  prettiest  of  the  lot!"  Lou's  eyes  went  to  Tina's, 
and  then  to  her  mother's;  all  three  looked  conscious.  But  May 
saved  the  moment  by  saying  affectionately: 

"Not  many  girls  are  as  lucky  as  Tina,  with  an  aunty  to  give 
them  so  many  pretty  things!" 

"Do  let's  go  over  this  list,  Mama!"  Tina  urged,  the  scarlet 
colour  ebbing  slowly  from  her  face. 

"Think  of  me,  with  only  one  girl  left!"  May  mused,  for  the 
hundredth  time.     "  I  think  I  must  be  a  managing  mama ! " 

The  shabby  old  thready  carpet  of  the  room  was  littered  with 
bits  of  ribbon,  material,  and  cotton,  but  it  was  to  be  all  cleaned 


444    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

to-morrow,  for  guests  would  be  put  in  here  in  a  day  or  two. 
Everyone  was  busy;  women,  passing  each  other  in  halls,  laugh- 
ingly explained  their  errands. 

'Tm  just  taking  this  rubbish  down — I'm  just  after  the  ladder 
to  straighten  that  curtain — I'm  just  going  to  the  door — some- 
one's ringing!" 

May  could  rattle  off  any  list  almost  automatically. 

"The  sandwiches,  four  kinds,  oyster  patties,  the  cakes,  the 
ice-cream — we  don't  have  to  worry  about  that! — coffee,  choco- 
late, lemonade — there  was  something  else — there  was  some- 
thing else — oh,  yes,  salad.  And  Fanny  suggested  olives  and  mot- 
toes— Bertie  said  he  would  get  them.  And  I've  got  it  on  my 
list  to  count  the  napkins " 

Or,  if  the  query  was  different,  she  could  say  just  as  readily,  in 
an  abstracted  voice: 

"Bobo  in  our  room,  with  Papa  and  me,  Bertie  on  the  hall 
lounge,  Vicky  in  Esme's  room,  if  she  comes,  Lou  and  Tina  in 
Tina's  room — dear  Tina,  her  last  night  in  the  old  home! — Rob 
in  the  sewing-room,  and  Lucy  in  Bertie's  old  room — if  she  comes. 
Then  I  have  the  double  mattress  from  Pa's  room  for  Nelly,  in 
the  playroom,  and  Carra  will  go  upstairs " 

Too  quickly  the  bright  days  fled,  and  it  was  only  three  days 
to  Tina's  wedding — only  two — it  was  "to-morrow"!  Tina 
continued  "wonderful;"  here  she  was,  in  her  simple  little  cotton 
frock,  arranging  ferns  and  roses  in  the  parlour,  with  no  other 
helper  than  Vernon  Yelland! 

"Tina!"  her  mother  said,  happily  scandalized,  one  arm  about 
her.  "Why,  what  would  people  think  of  a  bride  and  groom 
doing  their  own  decorating!  Don't  you  know  that  you  two 
aren't  supposed  to  see  each  other  at  all  until  to-morrow?" 

"That  will  do  for  fashionable  weddings,  Mama,"  Tina  said, 
lovingly,  "but  Vernon  isn't  getting  a  fashionable  wife!" 

"He's  satisfied,"  Vernon  said  for  himself,  blinking  through 
glasses  and  brushing  wet  rose-leaves  from  his  hands.  He  was 
radiantly  the  expectant  husband;  Tina  laughed  in  confidence  to 
Lou  that  he  was  already  saving  her  fatigue  and  strain. 

"He  says  he  doesn't  want  a  tired-out  little  wife!"  she  quoted 
merrily. 

Vera  and  little  Vernon  were  playing  with  Bobo  and  Nita. 
The  Yelland  baby  had  been  hospitably  taken  off  their  hands  by 
a  kindly  parish  matron.     Everything  was  fragrant  of  roses, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  445 

everything  was  thrilling  and  wonderful.  All  doors  were  open, 
all  windows,  and  in  every  room  laughing  persons  were  busy  at 
delightful  things.  They  admired  each  other's  handiwork;  the 
cake  frosting,  the  arrangement  of  roses  and  ferns,  the  lovely 
spaciousness  of  the  old  parlour  when  the  piano  was  pushed  back 
and  the  lounge  taken  upstairs. 

There  were  shrieks  at  the  front  door,  laughter,  and  the  noise 

of  kisses.     Nelly !     The  girls  welcomed  her  with  embraces 

and  exclamations.  And  this  beautiful  thing  with  her  must  be 
Hildegarde! 

Nelly  was  stouter,  but  she  looked  pale  from  the  hot  walk.  Her 
hair  had  lost  its  fly-away  golden  shine:  she  seemed  oddly  shabby 
and  slipshod;  her  hat  was  not  so  much  old  as  badly  worn  and 
cheap,  her  shirtwaist  pulled  away  from  the  heavy  serge  skirt 
that  sagged  to  the  ground  in  back.  She  had  lost  a  front  tooth, 
which  made  her  a  little  self-conscious;  she  kept  twisting  her 
face  involuntarily  to  show  the  complete  side  of  her  mouth, 
and  her  fingers  went  to  the  gap  whenever  any  one  looked  at  her 
directly. 

Hildegarde  was  exquisite:  slender,  solemn  and  fairy-like  at 
seven,  with  deep  violet  eyes  in  fainter  rings  of  violet  shadow,  a 
skin  of  amber,  a  proud  aristocratic  mouth,  not  too  small,  teeth 
that  were  white  and  square  between  scarlet  lips,  and  a  glorious 
mane  of  deep  gold  hair  waving  in  a  mass  off  her  soft  forehead 
and  curling  into  bright  tips  on  her  shoulders.  Her  cleft  chin 
was  clean  cut  and  well  raised,  her  figure  erect  and  beautifully 
modelled;  for  the  first  half-hour  she  was  like  an  awed  and  silent 
little  princess.  Bobo  reported  that  she  did  not  talk  at  all  when 
he  took  her  out  to  play. 

"She's  a  queer  one,"  Nelly  laughed.  "Deep.  Even  Rudy 
can't  do  much  with  her  when  she  gets  mad.  He  gave  her  an 
awful  whipping  last  night;  she  was  sassy  to  him,  and  Rudy  won't 
stand  that!  She  was  sorter  fooling,  I  guess,  and  she  called  him  a 
'sucker.'  I  don't  think  she  meant  anything,  but  he  begun 
licking  her,  and  then  she'd  yell  it  all  the  more.  Do  you  think 
he  could  stop  her?  There's  nobody  could  when  she  gets 
started.  But  Yetta — she's  the  girl  I  have  now,  only  pay  her 
fifteen  a  month — she's  a  little  crazy — she  began  to  yell  at  him  that 
there  was  a  man  outside  wanted  to  see  him,  and  then  she  sneaked 
Hilda  out  the  back  way.  But  she's  a  good  child,  Hilda  is," 
Nelly  went  on,  to  correct  a  possible  misrepresentation,  "she's 


446  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

lots  of  help  with  the  others.  And  she's  crazy  about  the 
baby " 

" My  land,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  track  of  the  babies!" 
Fanny  said,  with  her  harsh,  bright  laugh.  "How  many  are 
there  now?" 

"Just  the  four,  besides  her,"  Nelly  said,  surprised.  "There's 
the  three  boys,  Cliffy,  Lloydy,  and  Stuart,  and  then  Maybelle. 
They're  all  well,  except  Lloydy — he  has  sore  eyes  all  the  time. 
It  makes  him  stupid,  the  poor  little  fellow.  I  don't  have 
much  trouble  with  them.  I  thought  Mama  might  come  to 
me,  when  Georgie  acted  so  terrible  to  her,  last  fall,  but  she  says 
she  has  friends  in  Sacramento." 

Fanny  sniffed,  looked  expectantly  at  May.  But  Lou  quite 
innocently  interrupted. 

"What  did  Georgie  do,  Nelly?" 

"Oh,  didn't  they  tell  you?"  Nelly  wiped  Hildegarde's  nose, 
hard.  "Why,  since  Papa  seems  to  be  so  unsettled  in  Los  An- 
geles, or  wherever  he  is,"  she  said,  "and  Georgie  was  doing  so 
well — he's  bought  his  hardware  shop! — Mama  went  down  to 
visit  him.  And — this  neighbouring  lady  told  her,  first,  that  he 
was  married  to  a  girl — well,  I  guess  she  wasn't  straight.  Wasn't 
that  it,  Aunt  May?  A  girl  named  Dessy  Tate.  Mama  walked 
about  a  mile  to  find  his  new  shop,  and  it  was  one  of  the  hottest 
days  of  the  year,  and  when  she  got  there  Georgie  wasn't  there — 
or  else  he  was,  I  forget  how  it  was,  and  poor  Mama  was  almost 
fainting,  and  she  wanted  to  come  in  and  sit  down — no,  that's 
how  it  was,  Georgie  wasn't  there,  but  this  girl  was,  and  she  said 
— it  seems — to  Mama,  that  she  was  Mrs.  Crabtree  and  Mama 
said  something,  Georgie  says  that  she  insulted  his  wife,  and  said 
that  she  was  no  better  than  she  should  be,  or  something  like 
that — anyway  when  Georgie  came  back  she  had  locked  the 
door " 

"I  heard  she  called  out  of  the  window  all  sorts  of  lies  about 
your  mother!"  Fanny  supplemented. 

"Well,  anyway,"  Nelly  said,  "Mama  had  to  go  into  a  neigh- 
bour's house,  and  they  gave  her  water,  she  was  almost  fainting 
by  that  time,  and  they  told  her  a  lot  about  this  Dessy — that  she 
was  pretty  bad,  I  guess.  And  after  awhile  Georgie  came  over, 
and  Mama  wouldn't  see  him — and  I  think  this  girl — she  is  his 
wife  all  right — came  after  him — I  forget  just  how  it  was.  I  know 
it  was  before  my  Maybelle  was  born,  because  Vicky  and  Geor- 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  447 

gie's  wife  and  I  were  all  that  way.  But  her  baby  died,  we  heard. 
Look  at  my  stocking !"  interrupted  Nelly,  pulling  the  black  web 
up  over  her  leg.  "  I  gave  Cliffy  my  garter  when  we  were  getting 
dressed  this  morning.  My  land,  I  didn't  think  we  could  get 
away  at  all!" 

"Rubber  neck!"  Hildegarde  shrilled  from  the  window,  to 
Bobo,  outside.  The  unexpected  sound  made  all  the  women 
laugh. 

"She's  a  terror  to  pick  things  up!"  Nelly  admitted.  "That's 
the  latest — she'll  yell  that  at  everyone.  That's  not  ladylike, 
Hilda,"  she  chided  the  child.  "Why  don't  you  go  out  and 
play  with  the  nice  little  boy?  And  button  your  shoe.  Rudy 
was  wild  at  my  leaving,"  she  admitted  further,  "but  I  hadn't 
been  anywhere  for  so  long  I  just  had  to  come!  If  he  doesn't 
like  it  he  can  lump  it." 

"If  your  mother's  in  Sacramento  she  probably  won't  come," 
Fanny  suggested,  expectantly. 

"I  don't  know  just  where  Mama  is,"  Nelly  answered  inno- 
cently. "Well — let's  talk  about  Tina.  Getting  married  to- 
morrow, huh?  I  like  the  style!  And  starting  in  with  three 
children — that  beats  me!" 

"We  think  that  dear  Mrs.  Manson  may  take  little  Alma  for 
awhile;  they  have  no  children,"  Tina  said,  in  a  motherly  tone; 
"that  would  leave  me  only  the  older  two,  and  little  Vernon  is 
nearly  four  now,  so  that  there  really  isn't  so  much  to  do.     I  am 

going  to  teach  them  both,  and  Vernon  says  he  will  help " 

Tina  broke  off  for  a  playful  laugh.  "  I  can't  do  much  these  days 
without  the  offer  of  an  assistant!"  she  complained  happily. 
"But  I  really  thought  that  I  might  teach  other  children,"  she 
added,  "because,  with  four  of  us,  a  hundred  and  ten  dollars  a 
month  isn't  one  bit  too  much!  And  besides  that,  in  that  way 
I  would  keep  in  close  touch  with  the  little  unfolding  souls  and 
minds — what  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  broke  off  to  ask  Nelly. 

"Nothing — except  that  vou're  so  killing!"  Nelly  answered 
good-naturedly. 

"Here's  a  little  girl  that  has  lost  her  tongue ! "  May  said,  to  the 
silently  staring  Hildegarde.  "Tell  me  how  many  little  brothers 
and  sisters  you've  got?"  she  coaxed. 

"I  have  Cliffy  and  Lloydy  'cept  he's  got  sore  eyes  and  Stuart 
and  my  baby  Maybill!"  Hildegarde  answered  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly,  marking  with  a  dirty  little  finger  the  pattern  of 


448    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

May's  old  sateen.  "And  Mama  said  she  would  have  had  six 
children  'cept  that  the  time  the  horse  ran  away — back  when  I 
lived  on  a  ranch — and  she  had  a  miss!  And  the  day  Maybill 
was  born  a  man  came  after  Papa  and  Yetta  yelled  at  him  he 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  hisself!" 

She  finished  this  extraordinary  recital  triumphantly,  and 
again  subsided  into  an  admiring  silence.  May  cleared  her 
throat;  she  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  Tina  looked  distinctly 
embarrassed  and  Fanny  scandalized,  but  Lou  merely  laughed. 

"Isn't  she  a  holy  terror?"  Nelly  said,  with  something  also 
triumphant  in  her  mild  deprecation.  "Run  along,  Hilda,"  she 
added,  "see  what  a  pretty  house  Aunt  May's  got!" 

Hilda  departed  on  a  tour  of  investigation.  It  seemed  a 
palace  to  her.  The  rods  on  the  old  stairway,  holding  the  worn 
brown  strings  of  the  original  "body  Brussels"  in  place,  were 
alone  a  source  of  delight.  The  wooden  slide  between  the  din- 
ing room  and  kitchen  she  opened  and  shut  forty  times,  some- 
times running  out  into  the  kitchen  to  peep  through  it  into  the 
dining  room,  sometimes  running  back  to  peep  into  the  kitchen 
again.  And  when  she  discovered  that  there  was  a  back  stair- 
way, ascending  into  obscure  upper  hallways  where  the  laundry 
basket  and  the  bedroom  broom  and  the  carpet-sweeper  and  the 
rag-bag  were  huddled  together  with  stacks  of  folded  newspapers 
and  empty  cardboard  boxes,  she  spent  an  ecstatic  hour  going 
solemnly  up  one  stairway,  discovering  the  other  with  a  cry  of 
delight,  and  going  seriously  down  to  rediscover  the  first  again. 

In  the  wedding  excitement  she  and  Bobo,  with  the  blonde 
and  tearful  Vera,  whom  they  both  despised,  had  an  exhilarating 
share.  They  tasted  crushed  "  bouchettes,"  licked  spoons  and 
scraped  bowls;  Hilda  had  her  first  olive,  and  because  the  dash- 
ing and  fascinating  Lou  had  said  carelessly,  "Oh,  olives! 
Delicious!"  she  knew  that  she  ought  to  like  the  hard,  bitter 
thing,  and  made  a  point  of  eating  Bobo's,  too,  with  firm  scrapes 
of  her  white,  square  little  teeth.  Aunt  Tina,  who  was  going  to 
be  married  to  the  man  in  the  eyeglasses  who  was  Vera's  papa, 
said  "eyethere"  for  "eether,"  and  that  he  would  "telegrarf 
Vick."  Hildegarde  altered  her  own  vocabulary  correspond- 
ingly; she  was  learning  something  every  instant. 

"Grammer,"  whom  these  people  called  "Lucy"  and  "Aunt 
Lucy,"  arrived  with  a  large,  dark,  laughing  man  who  was  to  be 
known  as  "Uncle  Bob."     Hildegarde  was  inclined  to  cling  to  her 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  449 

mother  and  grandmother,  when  darkness  came,  and  she  found 
herself  still  in  this  unfamiliar  big  place,  among  so  many  strange 
faces.  After  dinner  she  felt  very  hot  and  stuffed;  she  had  eaten 
too  many  queer  things;  her  clothes  felt  tight.  She  sat  squeezed 
into  a  big  armchair  with  Bobo,  and  Uncle  Bob  said  he  would 
show  them  how  a  regular  Indian  war-cry  went. 

But  Bobo's  rough  little  sleeve,  behind  her,  was  pulling  against 
the  fine  floss  of  her  hair,  and  his  sturdy  little  body  had  coasted 
against  her  in  a  most  uncomfortable  way.  Lights  blazed  in  her 
eyes;  she  was  dropping  with  fatigue.  And  a  brown  old  woman — 
or  was  it  a  monkey  in  a  red  shawl  and  chocolate-coloured  apron  ? 
— suddenly  appeared,  chattering  something  Hildegarde  could 
not  understand,  but  that  Aunt  May  immediately  interpreted 
by  saying  that  they  must  make  less  noise,  that  dear  Grandpa 
had  been  wakened  up  by  the  war-cry,  and  was  talking  about  the 
Apaches. 

She  roused  out  of  a  sort  of  stupor,  her  little  mouth  sour  from 
too  much  candy,  her  heavy  eyes  drooping.  Someone  with  a 
baby  had  come  flying  in  out  of  the  hot  summer  dusk:  another 
aunt.     Aunt  Vicky. 

Everyone  was  making  a  great  fuss  over  this  aunt,  who  was 
dark  and  quick-mannered,  with  a  laughing  face.  Everyone 
grabbed  her  serene,  sleepy  little  boy,  who  was  wearing  the 
whitest  coat  and  socks  and  bonnet  Hildegarde  had  ever  seen. 
There  was  great  laughing  and  kissing 

Somebody  was  wiping  Hildegarde' s  face  with  a  wet,  warm 
towel,  somebody  was  raising  her  aching  little  arms  to  take  off 
her  dress.  Vera  was  asleep  in  a  nice,  wide,  low  bed  on  the  floor; 
Hilda  was  beside  her,  deliciously  stretched;  lights  blazed,  and 
were  out.     The  last  dreamy  reality  was  Aunt  Vicky's  voice : 

"He'll  do  beautifully  there,  Mama,  the  darling.  He'd  sleep 
if  you  hung  him  up  on  a  hook!  It's  so  wonderful  to  see  you  all! 
And  think  of  to-morrow — and  old  Teen " 

There  was  a  high  fog  the  next  morning,  but  by  nine  o'clock 
it  was  gone,  and  the  old  house  stirred  sunnily  with  happy  events. 
The  kitchen  was  very  important,  for  everyone  ate  a  casual  break- 
fast there,  and  then  everyone  fell  to  making  sandwiches.  And 
after  the  kitchen  there  were  last  flowers  and  last  touches,  and 
then  the  final  glory  of  dressing. 

By  this  time  superlatives  were  exhausted.     Stephen  was  an 


45o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

angel — Lou  was  just  a  darling — the  dining-room  looked  simply 
gorgeous,  the  children  were  too  utterly  sweet! 

The  children,  first  dressed,  sat  primly  on  the  front  steps. 
Distracted  elders  rushed  to  and  fro.  Tina  had  disappeared  into 
her  bedroom,  where  most  of  the  women  were.  Stephen  with  a 
broom  mildly  brushed  a  few  leaves  from  the  front  path. 

Lou  had  arranged  Tina's  hair;  Vicky  sat  holding  her  baby 
and  chattering;  Tina  was  pale  except  for  a  blazing  spot  on  each 
cheek;  she  looked  oddly  pretty  with  her  faintly  crimped  hair. 
Fanny,  in  water-striped  black  silk  rustled  and  sniffed.  Lucy 
was  self-possessed  in  a  new  plum-coloured  sateen;  May  tremu- 
lous in  gray  silk. 

"  Bertie  and  Lola — "  somebody  announced  from  the  window. 
May  put  the  plain  white  muslin  in  a  stiff  ring  over  Tina's  va- 
ginally bowed  head;  Tina's  bare  arms  vanished;  the  effect  for 
which  Mis'  Underwood  had  striven  so  gallantly  was  there,  in 
all  its  beauty.     The  bretelles  were  straight,  after  all ! 

"Teen — you're  going  to  be  simply  adorable!"  the  girls  said, 
when  the  veil  floated  over  the  crimps. 

"Am  I?"  Tina  asked  fixedly,  faintly  anxious,  and  not  moving 
eyes  or  lips  or  head  while  the  delicate  business  of  adjustment 
was  under  way.  Solemnly  she  revolved;  and  solemnly  they 
chorused  their  admiration.  Vicky,  on  the  floor  to  straighten 
the  bell-like  flare  of  the  hem,  sat  back  on  her  heels,  her  eyes 
shining.  She  was  so  charming,  now,  this  married  Vicky,  leaner, 
graver,  more  definite  somehow;  no  longer  the  old  restless  egotis- 
tic Vicky;  all  the  absorbed  wife,  daughter,  and  mother. 

"Isn't  she  lovely,  Mama?     Proud  of  your  bride?" 

But  May  was  in  tears.  It  was  time  to  go  down,  and  down 
they  all  fluttered;  a  few  friends — "just  the  precious  few  who 
count/'  Tina  said — were  waiting  in  the  lower  hall  and  the  deco- 
rated parlour.  Alice  Babcock  was  there,  looking  oddly  pale  and 
strained;  Lola's  uncle  was  there,  and  walked  with  Lou. 

"Just-  between  Mama  and  Papa,  as  I've  walked  to  church 
since  my  little  baby  days!"  Tina  said,  emotionally.  And  be- 
tween her  mother  and  father  she  walked,  a  little  white  glove  in 
Stephen's  fatherly  arm,  May  gathering  her  gray  ruffles  from 
the  dust,  beside  her. 

The  others  all  preceded  them:  Lou  talking  quietly  with  Lola's 
funny  Spanish  uncle,  Lola  and  Bertie  on  each  side  of  Aunt 
Lucy.     Fanny  walked  with  Bob,  finding  nothing  to  say;  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    451 

children  boiled  over  the  paths  like  weeds.  Vicky  and  Alice 
murmured,  Vicky  apprehensive  that  her  rioting  baby  would  dis- 
grace her  in  church. 

Here  they  were;  the  little  churchyard  was  full  ofloyal  parish- 
ioners, the  Hardisty  girls  were  audibly  admiring,  summer  gowns 
fluttered,  and  happy  voices  murmured  a  blessing  on  the  bride. 
The  strains  of  music  wheezed  through  the  warm,  flower-scented 
air;  dear  Dora  Manson  was  at  the  organ.  And  here  were  the 
altar-boys  all  in  white,  to  lead  the  little  procession,  and  form  an 
aisle  to  the  door. 

Solemnly,  sweetly,  her  head  beautifully  erect,  her  eyes  ex- 
alted, Tina  went  through  them  all,  was  somehow  in  the  dark, 
neat  aisle,  with  Papa's  shoes  creaking  decorously  as  he  led  her  on. 
She  knelt  down  in  the  front  pew  with  Mama  and  Papa — it  hadn't 
been  arranged  so,  she  thought,  but  no  matter — she  should  have 
been  the  last  one  in,  everyone  should  have  been  in  place.  She 
could  hear  them  creaking  and  rustling  in — it  was  ridiculous  to 
have  the  bride  already  in  full  view,  she  murmured  to  her  ham- 
mering heart.  Never  mind.  Now  what — did  she  stand  up,  or 
what?  They  had  somehow  mismanaged  the  whole  thing!  She 
should  have  come  in  on  Papa's  arm,  and  been  handed  straight 
over  to  Vernon — no  matter. 

She  saw  Vernon,  murmuring  to  Lyn  Hodges,  his  best  man; 
Lyn  was  only  twenty-two,  and  he  had  been  three  years  in  San 
Quentin  Prison.  Vernon  was  reforming  him,  and  he  had  asked 
Tina  if  she  would  mind  his  showing  Lyn  his  trust  and  affection 
by  this  great  distinction.  Tina  did  not  like  Lyn;  there  was 
something  sly  and  loose  and  clammy  and  coarse  about  him,  but 
she  loved  Vernon  for  the  thought.  Darling  Vernon,  she  was 
going  to  be  married  to  him 

He  was  coming  toward  her;  she  rose.  And  all  through  the 
rest  of  that  happy,  bewildering,  memorable  day  the  others  told 
her  how  charming  it  was;  that  simple,  graceful  rising,  that  shy 
step  toward  him,  that  surrender  of  the  little  lisle  glove.  It  was 
different  from  every  other  wedding  that  ever  was;  it  was  just  too 
touching  and  wonderful,  they  said. 

Seething  like  a  boiling  pot,  the  old  house  rang  with  laughter, 
tears,  blessings,  good  wishes.  Pretty  gowns  crushed  pretty 
gowns,  voices  rose  and  fell.  The  happy  hours  flew  by;  it  was 
afternoon,  the  guests  melted  away.  Lucy  was  gone,  and  Bob 
was  gone,  and  Nelly  was  gone  with  beautiful  little  Hildegarde. 


452    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Lola  and  her  uncle  and  Bertie  had  disappeared,  quiet  began  to 
fall  upon  the  tired  household.  Alice  had  gone  first  of  all.  Tina 
took  her  husband's  arm;  she  had  taken  off  her  veil  and  wore  a 
hat  wreathed  with  daisies,  and  her  wedding  gown.  They  would 
walk  home  for  supper,  beginning  their  married  life,  she  said,  as 
they  meant  to  live  it,  simply  and  unostentatiously. 

" Hasn't  it,"  gasped  Vicky  and  Fan  and  May  and  Lou, 
then  collapsing  into  chairs,  "been  simply  perfect!" 

Weary  in  their  finery,  they  reviewed  every  detail.  Wasn't 
the  weather,  the  music,  the  children,  the  late  luncheon — wasn't 
everything  perfection?  Hadn't  papa  been  lovely?  How  sweet 
Tina  had  been  when  she  said — how  lucky  that  just  as  the  sand- 
wiches— how  pleasant  little  Mrs.  Manson  was!  And  Lola's 
uncle — extremely  nice  of  him  to  come — he  was  really  very 
nice 

"Oh,  don't  begin  to  clear  things  up,  Lou  darling,"  Vicky 
yawned,  "let's  eat  sandwiches  for  dinner— if  any  one's  hungry — 
I  don't  feel  that  I'll  ever  eat  again!  Wasn't  my  baby  pretty 
good — he  did  let  out  one  little  yelp,  bless  his  heart,  but  he  al- 
ways shouts  that  way  when  he  hears  any  one  talking." 

"Too  bad  Davy  couldn't  come,"  May  said,  yawning  too. 

"He  comes  down  next  month,  to  stay,"  Vicky  said,  her  bright 
face  suddenly  serious.  "Darn  the  old  dollar-eighty,  anyway! 
It  does  seem  such  a  lot  to  put  into  a  ticket!  I  don't  suppose  he'll 
ever  get  home!" 

"Will  somebody  have  the  extreme  goodness  to  tell  me,"  asked 
Lou  suddenly,  after  an  inspection  of  a  ripped  ruffle,  "what  is 
the  matter  with  Alice?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  isn't  very  happy,  poor  Alice,"  May  said 
amiably. 

"She  cried  right  through  the  service,"  Victoria  contributed, 
frowning  thoughtfully.     "What's  the  matter  with  Frank?" 

"Tight!"  Lou  said  laconically. 

"He  won't  let  Aunt  Lucy  live  with  her,  and  I  guess  the  poor 
child  is  a  good  deal  cooped  up,  out  there  alone  in  the  Mission," 
May  contributed.  "We  never  see  them — I  was  surprised  that 
she  came  to-day.     She  didn't  seem  one  bit  like  herself." 

"But  where  does  Aunt  Lucy  live?"  demanded  Victoria. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  and  then  Fanny  answered 
stiffly: 

"She  says  she  has  friends  in  Sacramento." 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  453 


"Who?"  Vicky  pursued,  surprised. 

"She  says  she  has  a  position  in  the  Post  Office,"  May  admitted 
noncommittally.  Vicky,  in  some  bewilderment,  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  laughed. 

"Mama,  why  did  you  say  it  so  funnily?" 

Fanny  pursed  her  hard  mouth  in  a  hard  smile. 

"I  suppose  there  is  such  a  thing  as  working  in  a  Post  Office," 
she  said,  primly.  And  suddenly  they  all  laughed  violently 
and  long,  May  trying  to  restrain  herself,  Lou  at  first  with  a 
scornful  smile,  but  in  the  end  all  heartily  and  together. 

"Yes,  and  there  are  other  jobs!"  Vicky  tried  to  get  it  said  just 
before  the  gale,  but  it  was  no  use,  she  was  choked  off  by  laughter, 
and  could  only  faintly  gasp,"  Yes,  and  there — there — t — t — t — !" 
over  and  over  again.  "I  was  going  to  say  that  there  are  other 
jobs  in  Sacramento,"  she  said  weakly,  wiping  her  eyes.  This 
sent  the  others  off  again. 

"I  declare  we  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves,"  May  began 
roundly.  But  her  voice  faded  mysteriously,  and  her  bulky  form 
in  the  gray  silk  began  to  quiver.  "I  don't  know  what's  got  into 
us  all!"  she  sobbed,  in  a  full  flood  of  uncontrollable  hilarity. 

"Vic — Vic — Vic "  Fanny  panted,  suffocated,  and  buried 

a  loud   "Ha — ha — ha!"   in  her  handkerchief.     "I   can't   say 

what "  she  whined,  in  a  high  tone  that  utterly  convulsed 

Vicky  and  Lou.  They  buried  their  faces  frankly  in  their  hands 
with  a  sound  like  crying. 

As  suddenly  as  it  had  risen,  the  storm  passed. 

"I  declare  we  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves,"  May  said 
again,  huskily  and  almost  steadily,  drying  her  eyes. 

"Well,  I  thought  then  that  I  was  going  to  die;  I  don't  know 
what  came  over  me!"  Fanny,  similarly  busy,  added  with  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  Vicky,  still  with  reminiscent  breezes  of  laugh- 
ter, went  to  get  her  baby,  Lou  trailing  after.  Fanny  and  May 
fell  into  a  good-natured  discussion  of  Nelly:  how  slatternly  she 
was,  how  pathetic,  how  cheerful. 

"It  seems  a  pity  that  so  many  nice  young  fellows  drink;  it 
makes  it  so  hard  for  their  wives!"  May  commented  mildly,  of 
Rudy. 

"Vick,  tell  me  what  you  do  all  day  long,"  Lou  said,  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  Vicky,  in  the  low,  armless  rocker  that  had 
crept  so  many  miles  over  shabby  carpets,  with  its  freight  of 
mother  and  baby,  looked  down  at  her  child's  head  with  a  thought- 


454    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

ful  smile.  She  had  a  vision  of  the  dreaming,  pleasant  country 
town,  of  bridal  wreath  in  the  garden,  of  fish  horns  sounding 
lazily  through  Friday  morning  calms,  of  Minnie  or  Anita  stop- 
ping at  the  gate  to  coax  her  into  wheeling  Taffy  downtown,  to 
buy  a  spool  of  pink  cotton  or  a  bottle  of  witch-hazel.  At  the 
Post  Office,  at  the  pharmacy,  all  the  way  down  River  Street, 
there  would  be  news,  friends,  gossip.  She  might  even  see  Davy, 
filling  his  old  medicine  case  in  the  drug  store  or  hurrying  out  to 
the  Martinelli  baby. 

She  thought  of  the  kitchen,  firelight,  and  lamplight,  herself 
busy  with  coffee  pot  and  kindling  in  the  sharp  winter  mornings; 
Davy  adoring  and  content  over  his  second  cup,  Taffy  riotous  in 
the  shabby  high  chair.  She  remembered  the  delicious  sense  of 
thawing  in  her  cold  fingers,  the  delicious  beginning  of  sunshine 
across  the  frosted  backyard  and  the  steaming  manure  pile  out 
by  the  stable,  the  delicious  sweetness  of  Taffy,  curly-headed 
and  rosy  from  deep  sleep. 

But  she  could  not  tell  Lou  of  these  things,  and  so  she  only 
smiled,  and  shifted  Taffy,  and  said  vaguely  that  there  was  not 
much  to  tell,  but  that  she  liked  it. 

"And  Davy?"  asked  Lou. 

"I  wish  you  knew  how  wonderful  Davy  is!"  Vicky  said  quite 
seriously.  "  Lou,  what  about  you  and  Mr.  Tasheira  ? "  she  asked 
in  turn,  as  Lou  fell  silent,  and  Taffy,  refreshed  and  alert,  sat  up 
strongly,  and  gazed  about  the  disordered  room  with  starry  eyes. 

Lou  smiled  her  inscrutable  smile. 

"Did  you  notice  anything?" 

"I  did.     I  don't  know  that  any  one  else  did!" 

Lou  dimpled,  looked  into  space,  shrugged. 

"Lou,  do  you  like  him?" 

"In  a  way.     Do  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  him.  He  looks  rather  dark  and  small 
and  foreign,"  Vicky  said  slowly,  feeling  her  way.  "I  can't 
imagine  him  as  a  brother-in-law!"  she  confessed  smilingly. 

Lou  got  up  and  shut  the  door.  Then,  studying  herself  in 
the  mirror,  she  said  quietly: 

"Well,  you  might  just  as  well  begin!" 

Vicky  stared  at  her  in  silence;  her  mouth  opening  for  a  word 
that  failed  her,  her  eyes  wide. 

"Two  weeks  ago  yesterday,"  Lou  stated  cryptically,  her  eyes 
meeting  Vicky's,  in  the  mirror. 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  455 

Her  sister  got  to  her  feet,  set  the  baby  in  the  centre  of  the  bed 
with  a  bracelet  to  rattle  in  an  old  silver  mug,  her  eyes  not  mov- 
ing from  Lou. 

"What!"  she  said,  in  a  sharp  whisper,  coming  to  the  bureau. 
Lou  maintained  her  half-amused,  half-indifferent,  superior 
smile. 

"Certainly!"  she  affirmed  airily.  "In  the  vestry  of  the 
old  Spanish  church  on  Broadway!" 

"  But — but  good  heavens!  Didn't  any  one  see  it  in  the  paper  ? " 

"Apparently  not." 

"My  heavens!"  Vicky  gasped,  utterly  at  a  loss.  One  could 
not  take  this  self-possessed  creature  into  one's  arms  for  kisses 
and  tears  like  Tina's.  "Lou — why  did  you  keep  it  a  secret?" 
she  asked. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  But  come  here  and  sit  down,  Vick." 
Lou  drew  her  sister  to  the  old  bed,  where  they  had  sat  together 
for  confidences  many  years  before,  and  where  Vicky  could  keep  a 
hand  on  Taffy's  skirts.  "In  the  first  place,"  Lou  confessed,  in 
a  low  tone,  "I  didn't  know  it  was  going  to  happen.  He's  very 
odd,  Seiior  Tasheira,  and  in  a  way  he  was — well,  not  exactly 
afraid,  but  he  didn't  want  all  the  talk  and  fuss — Lola  would 
have  been  furious,  and  the  old  Senoritas  are  sick,  do  you  see? 
Well,  on  Fridays  we  have  been  having  all  sorts  of  little  trips,  he 
and  I — did  you  know  that?" 

"Know  it!"  Vicky  echoed,  holding  her  sister's  hands  tight, 
her  eyes  eager  with  sympathy  and  interest.  "I  didn't  know 
you  even  knew  each  other!" 

"We've  been  to  the  Cliff,  and  the  Park,  and  the  Mint,  and  over 
to  Fruitvale,  and  everywhere,"  continued  Lou.  "I  think  Lola 
knows  that — suspects  it,  anyway.  Last  Friday  we  were  in  China- 
town, and  he  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  in  the  old  Spanish 
church.  I  said  no.  He  said,  'You  and  I  will  walk  in  there 
and  be  married  some  day,  and  then  they  can  say  what  they 
like!' 

"Just  then  a  carriage  passed;  he  hates  walking,  and  he  stopped 
the  man.  And  at  that  instant  he  looked  at  me  and  said,  'Why 
not  to-day?     We  can  drive  to  the  City  Hall. ' 

"I  had  no  time  to  think.  I  thought  he'd  change  his  mind 
long  before  we  got  there,  but  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  wouldn't 
matter  much  if  he  did.  Mama  and  Papa  weren't  along  to  queer 
everything " 


456    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"Lou!"  Victoria  said,  with  a  shocked  laugh. 

"Well,  they  always  do,  you  know!"  But  Lou's  look  was 
apologetic.  "  I'm  awfully  glad  to  talk  to  you  about  this,  Vick!" 
she  said,  with  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice. 

"Goon!" 

"Well,  we  went  to  the  City  Hall.  He — there  was  no  love- 
making,  you  know.  I  didn't — expect  it,  in  a  way.  I  know 
what  he  wants,  companionship — anyway,  I  know.  We  went 
back  to  Guadaloupe  church  and  were  married.  He  took  me 
down  town  and  we  had  lunch,  and  he  gave  me — look!" 

And  on  the  palm  of  her  hand  she  showed  Vicky  a  splendid 
brooch  of  diamonds  and  silver. 

"Lou  Brewer!" 

"Isn't  it  superb?  I  went  home,"  Lou  continued.  "But 
that  Sunday — last  Sunday,  I  told  Bertie  I  was  going  to  be  here 
with  Mama,  and  Senor  Tasheira  told  Lola  that  he  had  to  go  to 
San  Jose.     And  we  did,  we  went  to  San  Jose." 

"I  see!"  Vicky  murmured,  meeting  her  sister's  significant 
look  gravely.  And  buoyantly  within  her  rose  the  old  exulta- 
tion: things  were  happening  at  last!  Lou — Tina — good  gra- 
cious, all  the  Brewer  girls  were  married ! 

"Now  we're  getting  everything  in  order  for  going  away,  and 
then — if  there  is  much  fuss — we  can  simply — depart!"  Lou 
finished. 

"To — where  is  it,  Zanzibar?" 

"To  Buenos  Aires." 

"And  Lou,  are  you  thrilled?"  For  Vicky  was  sparkling 
and  glowing  with  excitement. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  am,  in  a  way.  But  the  truth  is,  Vick,  I'm 
like  a  person  picked  up  at  sea.  I  just  know — that  I'm  rescued," 
Lou  said,  whimsically  but  unsmilingly.  "There  was  nothing 
for  me,  except  marriage,  and  there  was  nobody  to  help  me! 
Papa  and  Mama  mean  well,  but  they  have  no  sense.  This  is — I 
know  what  I'm  doing!     He'll  never  regret  it." 

"My  darling!     If  you  won't ?"  Vicky  whispered  lovingly, 

a  little  uneasy  at  Lou's  manner. 

"Oh,  I  never  will.  The  person  who'll  regret  it,"  said  Lou, 
with  a  sudden  vicious  closing  of  her  handsome  mouth,  "is  Lola!" 

Victoria  burst  into  a  relieved  laugh;  she  had  not  thought  of 
Lola. 

"Lou,  isn't  he  very  rich?" 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         457 

"Yes,  I  believe  he  is.  Anyway,  when  I  spoke  of  Mama  and 
Papa,  he  told  me  that  I  must  help  them,  regularly,  you  know, 
now  that  Bertie  isn't  doing  so  well  and  Tina's  gone.  He'll  do 
anything  for  me!"  said  Lou,  simply  and  almost  scornfully. 

Victoria's  heart  soared;  Lou  married  to  a  rich  man!  Ar- 
rogant little  confident  Lola  so  neatly  foiled  in  this  totally  un- 
expected manner!  The  situation  was  not  entirely  ideal,  but 
then  what  situation  was?  She  carried  her  baby  downstairs 
with  a  singing  heart;  life,  at  thirty,  was  lots  of  fun. 

Stephen,  with  Bobo's  eager  help,  and  that  of  the  two  servants 
hired  for  the  day,  had  actually  put  the  entire  kitchen  in  apple- 
pie  order.  They  had  scraped  pyramids  of  plates,  consolidated 
foods,  carried  away  rubbish,  and  put  napkins  into  the  wash 
basket;  washed  and  wiped  and  put  away  every  cup  and  spoon, 
and  brushed  the  floor. 

Dear  old  Papa,  with  his  apron  on,  and  his  mild  beaming  smile, 
and  his  curly  gray  head !  No  wonder  the  neighbours  all  thought 
old  Mr.  Brewer  such  a  dear.  Vicky  would  not  eat.  But  she 
would  sip  scalding  tea,  and  nibble  nut  wafers,  as  Lou  and  Fanny 
and  May  and  Stephen  and  Bobo  all  talked  together,  similarly 
toying  with  the  salad  and  the  sandwiches  and  the  reheated 
chocolate. 

"Our  darling  girl  will  be  in,  in  the  morning!"  May  mused, 
happily.  "  Papa  was  saying  that  we  must  send  some  of  the  cake 
back  to  our  bride  and  groom!" 

"We  go  at  ten-ten,"  Vicky  said  in  a  hushed  voice,  her  ear 
toward  the  hall.  Was  that  Taffy  ?  No,  it  was  a  cat  somewhere. 
"But  I'll  surely  see  Teen  first!"  she  said,  aloud.  May  eyed 
her  speculatively.  She  wanted  to  give  Vicky  a  little  advice 
before  she  left.  She  must  speak  to  Lou,  too,  about  a  little 
matter. 

The  chance  with  Lou  came  later,  when  Fanny  and  Vick,  with 
Stephen,  were  out  in  the  side  yard  in  the  lingering  twilight. 

"Lou,  love " 

"Yes,  Mama?" 

"There  was  just  one  thing  that  rather  troubled  Mama,  dear. 
About  Lola's  uncle — Mr.  Tasheira.  You  didn't  know  it,  Lou, 
but  you  rather  monopolized  him,  it  was  quite  noticeable,  dear. 
Now  he  is  an  odd  man,  elderly  and  a  little  eccentric,  and  we 
don't  want  to  make  any  feeling  of  ugliness  between  him  and 
Lola,  do  we?     You  see,  it's  our  Bertie's  happiness  as  well,  and 


458    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Lola  was  quite  angry  to-day — you  were  with  him  in  the  church 
and  walked  back  with  him — you  didn't  know  how  that  would 
look,  I  know.     But  Lola  will  inherit  all  his  money " 

"But  Mama,"  Lou  said  mildly,  slipping  a  handful  of  hot  clean 
teaspoons  into  the  mug  that  held  them.  "He's  only  fifty.  He 
may  live  twenty  years!" 

"I  know,  dear,  but  he  may  not.  Down  south  there — bull- 
fights and  fevers  and  things,"  May  said  vaguely.  "And  as 
Lola  said  to-day,  he  is  a  man  who  never  has  married  and  never 
will,  and  who  is  more  like  her  father  than  her  uncle!" 

"I  see "  Lou  conceded,  with  her  mysterious  half-smile. 

"And  you  won't  anger  Lola  about  it,  Lou?  Because  after 
all,  she  and  Bertie  give  you  your  home,  you  know." 

"I'll  remember!" 

"I  have  to  take  special  good  care  of  the  one  girlie  I  have  left!" 
May  said,  playfully,  following  Lou  to  join  the  others  in  the  yard. 
And  almost  immediately  she  found  her  chance  for  a  little  serious 
talk  with  Vicky.  She  did  not  like  this  plan  of  Davy's  coming 
down  to  San  Francisco,  leaving  his  wife  and  baby  with  his 
mother.  It  never  worked,  May  said.  Members  of  a  man's 
family  always  made  trouble  between  him  and  his  wife.  Be- 
sides, so  much  liberty  was  a  very  bad  thing  for  a  young  man  in 
a  strange  city. 

"Davy's  mother  may  be  a  very  excellent  old  woman,"  said 
May,  "but  she  is  only  a  farmer's  wife,  after  all.  There  is  no 
family,  there,  Vick,  no  blood,  dear.  You  must  remember  that 
the  Crabtree  and  Brewer  families  are  the  finest  in  the  state, 
Vick;  you  could  be  a  Daughter  of  the  Revolution  a  dozen  times 
over!  You  mustn't  allow  Davy  to  bury  you  in  a  little  country 
town " 

Victoria's  colour  rose  in  a  smooth,  thin  cheek;  she  looked 
patiently  at  Lou. 

"I  see,  Mama.  Well,  but  we  hope  Davy'll  only  be  down 
here  a  few  months,  alone.  Our  plan  is  that  I  come  down  next 
summer — a  year  from  this  fall,  anyway!" 

"Don't  separate  at  all,  and  don't  have  any  member  of  his 
family  with  you ! "  May  summarized  finally  and  firmly  "  Prom- 
ise me,  Vick!" 

"I  can't  exactly  promise,  Mama "  Victoria's  mild  glance 

met  Lou's  again. 

"Then  Mama  doesn't  know  what  is  for  your  happiness — 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         459 

Mama  has  had  no  experience?"  May  asked,  hurt  and  annoyed. 

"It  isn't  that.      But " 

"But  Mama  is  advising  you  selfishly,  for  her  own  pleasure;  is 
that  it?" 

"No,  Mama.     But " 

May  smiled,  shaking  her  head  gently  to  and  fro. 

"Oh,  Vicky — Vicky — Vicky !  Always  stubborn,  always  head- 
strong!" she  sighed.     "Someday " 

Vicky  kissed  the  creased,  soft  old  forehead,  between  the  wor- 
ried, faded  gray  eyes.  Mama  would  be  sixty  next  year;  it 
seemed  old  to  Vick. 

"I'll  talk  it  all  over  with  Davy,  Mama,  and  let  you  know!" 
she  soothed  her,  amiably.  But  to  Lou,  when  they  were  walking 
to  the  gate,  for  a  neighbourly  word  with  Judge  Dufficy  and 
Edwina,  she  sent  an  oddly  compounded  expression  of  hopeless 
indulgence  and  exasperation,  accompanied  with  a  great  released 
breath  and  a  flinging  motion  of  both  her  hands. 

"Whew—!"  said  Vicky.     "What  can  you  do?" 

"What  we  have  done,  I  suppose,"  Lou  suggested  in  a  demure 
murmur,  meeting  the  callers. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

DESSY  CRABTREE  watched  him  coming  along  the  high- 
way: a  bent,  quiet  little  man,  oddly  hesitating  in  man- 
ner. She  was  not  an  especially  observing  person,  at 
nineteen,  but  she  was  pleased  with  the  world  this  morning,  and 
perhaps  a  trifle  more  inclined  than  usual  to  notice  it. 

There  had  been  long  and  violent  rains,  for  weeks  and  weeks. 
But  yesterday  had  had  a  wet  and  yellow  sunset,  embellished  by 
the  sudden  note  of  a  lark,  and  to-day  was  warm,  cloudless, 
sweet,  with  balmy  odours  of  saturated  earth  and  green  things 
floating  lazily  about.  The  grass  had  somehow  found  time,  be- 
tween deluges,  to  get  a  start;  it  spread  an  emerald  film  every- 
where, and  the  locusts  were  in  thin,  new,  unfolded  leafage,  and 
there  was  mustard  bright  against  the  old  fence.  Dessy  sat  on 
the  steps  at  the  side  door  of  the  building;  George's  repair  shop 
was  in  front,  their  four  little  living  rooms  at  the  back. 

The  sunshine  baked  her  slender  childish  shoulders;  she  could 
be  lazy  without  self-blame.  Next  month  the  new  baby  would 
be  here — the  first  baby;  for  the  shadowy  coming  and  going  of  her 
hopes  a  year  ago  had  not  made,  at  the  time,  a  deep  impression 
on  poor  little  ashamed,  confused  Dessy.  But  she  and  George 
were  exulting  in  this  new  prospect  with  a  joy  that  was  tremen- 
dously augmented,  although  they  did  not  fully  realize  it,  by 
what  they  had  lost. 

The  man  came  nearer  and  nearer;  stopped.  He  quavered  a 
question;  was  this  George  Crabtree's  place? 

"Ain't  he  there?"  Dessy  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  came 
about  to  the  shop.  It  was  open,  but  empty.  She  knew  every 
oily  nut  and  length  of  chain,  every  hammer  and  end  of  pipe  and 
plane  and  clipper  within  it;  she  knew  the  dark,  stained  tables 
littered  with  bits  of  leather  and  nails,  and  the  calendar  with  the 
rosy  fruit,  on  the  wall,  and  the  flat-sided  pencils,  and  the  disorderly 
papers  and  bills  on  a  file,  and  the  chipped,  discoloured  stools, 
and  the  frail  new  cobweb  on  the  window  she  tried  to  keep  clean. 

460 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    461 

George  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

"That's  right;  he  had  to  go  to  Santa  Clara!  Did  you  want 
something  done  to  a  wheel  ?"  asked  Dessy,  smiling  sympathe- 
tically at  the  tired  little  friendly  stranger. 

"No.     I  guess  Pll  just  wait,"  he  said,  rather  timidly. 

"Wait  round  here,  then!"  Dessy  said  hospitably,  leading 
him  to  the  side  door,  under  the  great  trees.  He  sat  down,  look- 
ing she  thought,  rather  ill. 

"I'm  his  father,"  the  stranger  said.  Dessy  did  not  answer: 
she  looked  frightened. 

"It's  kind  of  sweet  here,"  Harry  said,  after  a  silence,  a  little 
frightened  himself. 

"We  think  we're  fixed  real  nice,"  Dessy  answered  timidly. 
"  George  bought  this  place.     He's  doing  real  good." 

They  were  silent,  like  bashful  children.  When  the  noon 
whistles  shrilled  at  the  fruit  cannery,  Dessy  got  up  and  went  into 
the  kitchen.  Presently  she  came  out  to  find  Harry  dreaming; 
she  surprised  him  with  a  plate  of  food. 

"Say,  I  wouldn't  have  had  you  do  that  for  anything!"  he 
protested,  overwhelmed  at  her  kindness.  "You  certainly  are 
awfully  kind!" 

Dessy  said  nothing,  but  she  felt  less  fearful. 

He  ate  the  fried  egg  and  the  stewed  potatoes  eagerly. 

"You've  no  idea  what  home  cooking  tastes  like,"  he  said, 
gratefully.     "I  guess  you're  a  real  good  cook!" 

Dessy  was  pleased.  She  had  not  a  great  many  friends  in 
the  neighbourhood,  because  she  had  so  recently  been  the  "Tate 
girl,  who  got  into  trouble  with  George  Crabtree."  And  it  was 
agreeable  to  her  to  have  this  mild,  kind  little  old  man  helping 
her  with  the  dishes  and  putting  things  in  order. 

They  had  just  finished  when  there  was  a  rattle  of  wheels  in 
the  yard,  and  George  came  in,  amazed  to  find  her  in  such 
company.  He  stood,  tall  and  strong,  shutting  out  the  bright 
spring  sunlight,  in  the  kitchen  doorway.  Beyond  him  was  blue- 
ness,  gold,  greenness;  the  full  soft  glory  of  the  exquisite  day. 
Chickens  picked  in  the  yard;  the  old  horse  turned  in  the  shafts 
to  look  after  his  driver. 

"Hello,   Dess!     Say "     And  suddenly  his  puzzled  look 

changed,  and  a  sweet,  boyish  smile  that  Dessy  had  never  seen, 
came  over  his  dark,  strong  face.     "Hello,  Pa!"  he  said. 

"Hello,    dear!"    Harry    answered,    smiling    and    trembling. 


: 


462    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"I  was  near  here,  Georgie!"  he  faltered  anxiously,  "and  I 
thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  how  you  were!" 

Georgie  kissed  him  in  the  old  nursery  fashion ;  Harry  and  Dessy 
watched  him  sympathetically  while  he  ate.  They  did  not  talk 
much,  George  was  not  interested  in  family  news,  if  Harry  had 
had  it.  The  eyes  of  the  son,  however,  were  fixed  keenly  upon 
the  father  when  Harry  told  his  own  story.  He  had  had  a  posi- 
tion in  Los  Angeles  in  a  school,  giving  out  books  and  pencils,  he 
said,  and  then  he  had  been  ill,  in  the  city  and  county  hospital, 
and  then  he  had  worked  in  a  restaurant. 

"You've  had  it  kind  of  tough,  Pa,"  Georgie  commented,  fin- 
ishing his  coffee. 

"Well,  I  got  through  it,"  Harry  answered,  smiling  with  wet 
eyes.     His  son's  sympathy  was  sweet  to  him. 

"How  about  having  my  father  here  with  us  for  awhile?" 
George  asked  Dessy.     "Could  you  stay,  Pa?" 

"I'd  love  it,  George,"  his  wife  answered  shyly. 

"I'd — I'd  be  real  pleased,"  Harry  said,  clearing  his  throat. 
The  busy  spring  afternoon,  the  lingering  twilight  that  followed, 
the  chickens,  the  dishes,  the  talk  with  his  son,  seemed  to  Harry 
the  happiest  time  he  had  ever  known  in  his  life. 

"Mama  write  you  about  coming  down  here  and  finding  out 
I  was  married?"  George  asked  him  abruptly  the  next  morning, 
when  they  were  busy  over  bicycle  repairs  in  the  shop.  Harry 
nodded,  looking  uneasy. 

"You  mustn't  blame  your  mother,"  he  answered  placat- 
ingly.  "She  had  been  kind  of  calculating  on  coming  down  to 
live  with  you;  she  was  planning  on  opening  a  cake  shop " 

"Cake  shop!"  Georgie  repeated,  astounded. 

"Well,  you  know  your  mother,  son.  She  hadn't  heard  you 
were  married,  and  it  was  a  hot  day — "  Harry  gave  his  son 
an  appealing  and  anxious  smile.  "She  kind  of  started  off" 
wrong  with  Dessy,"  he  pleaded.  George  looked  at  his  father, 
small,  eager,  shabby,  and  his  face  softened. 

"Dessy's  good  enough  for  you!"  he  said  gruffly.  "Now,  I'll 
tell  you  about  Mama,"  he  resumed  belligerently.  "She  came 
here,  and  nothing  was  good  enough  for  her,  and  she  called  Dessy 
names!  All  right,  if  my  mother  can't  get  along  with  my  wife, 
she  can  get  out.  I  don't  want  to  see  her,  and  I  don't  want  to 
write  to  her.  I'm  done.  Dessy  got  crying  and  everything, 
and  she  was  sick.     If  she  had  died  that  night,  I  would  have — ■ 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    463 

well,  that's  all  right.     But  I  never  want  to  see  Mama  here 
again!" 

Harry  nodded,  sick  at  heart.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  quite 
belong  here,  either,  and  when  his  visit  had  lasted  for  almost  a 
week,  he  began  to  fear  that  any  day  might  be  the  last. 

Eagerly,  he  made  himself  useful,  sweeping,  raking,  burning 
rubbish,  watching  the  shop.  He  fed  the  chickens,  he  knew  every 
one  of  the  twenty-seven  individually  now.  He  held  long  talks 
with  Dessy,  who  said  that  he  knew  more  than  a  book.  And 
every  time  George  said  "Pa"  with  any  particular  intonation, 
he  felt  a  sick  pang  of  premonition. 

One  night,  when  languid  springtime  twilight  was  in  the  kit- 
chen, and  when  the  three  were  sitting  long  over  asparagus  and 
rhubarb  and  other  springtime  fare,  Harry  cleared  his  throat 
and  approached  the  dread  subject. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  ought  to  be  getting  on,"  he  began. 

George,  pulling  on  his  pipe  in  the  shadows,  his  wife  on  his 
knee,  listened  quietly.  If  Pa  felt  that  way  about  it,  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it,  he  said.  He  and  Dessy  had  noticed  that  Pa 
was  kind  of  quiet 

"It  isn't  that,  Georgie,"  Harry  said  wretchedly.  "But  you 
and  your  wife  might  feel  like  you'd  rather  be  alone " 

He  hesitated,  laughed  nervously. 

"Well,  we  don't!"  Dessy  burst  out  suddenly.  And  to  his 
amazement,  to  his  incredulity  and  joy,  Harry  realized  that  she 
was  crying  bitterly.  "You've — you've  been  to  London  and 
New  York  and  all  like  that!"  she  sobbed,  strangling,  "but — 
but  you  did  say  you  liked  the  chickens,  and  you  did  say  that  I 
and  you  would  go  to  San  Jose  and  get  some  roses!  And — and 
George  and  I  never  had  a  ba-ba-baby!"  hiccoughed  Dessy, 
"and  I  can't— I  can't " 

"See  here,  honey,  see  here,  honey,"  George  laughed,  with 
shaking  lips,  as  he  took  out  his  handkerchief. 
j     Harry  took  out  his  cotton  handkerchief,  too,  and  wiped  his 
eyes.     There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Harry  spoke: 

"Why,  Georgie,"  he  faltered,  smiling,  "why,  Dessy!  I 
should  be  real  pleased  to  stay.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  a 
place  I  liked  so  much!" 

"Thank  you,  Pa,"  Georgie  said  simply.  Dessy  came  over  to 
kiss  him,  and  laughed  and  cried,  and  Harry  laughed  a  little  and 
cried  a  little,  too,  and  they  were  all  deeply  content. 


464  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Dessy' s  baby  chicks  were  handsome  young  broilers,  and  her 
baby  son  almost  four  months  old,  on  a  burning  July  day,  when 
Harry  came  in  from  the  yard  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand.  The 
kitchen,  on  the  northwest,  was  cool  until  noon,  and  Dessy  had 
watered  the  orderly  dooryard,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees.  But  the 
scorching  day  lay  brilliantly  on  the  dusty  roads,  and  the  chain 
of  eastern  mountains  quivered  in  a  blue  haze.  The  very  shadow 
of  orchard  trees  diffused  a  hot  light.  The  village  scarcely 
stirred;  the  baby  slumbered  in  his  crib  in  the  yard,  beads  of 
perspiration  shining  upon  his  rosy  little  face  and  flattening 
his  downy  red-gold  hair. 

Harry,  who  had  on  oily  overalls,  tiptoed  past  the  crib  with  a 
look  of  fatuous  adoration  in  his  face,  and  came  to  sit  upon  the 
step. 

"Georgie  gone?"  he  asked. 

"He  just  stepped  up  the  road  with  a  fellow  that  had  bust  his 
wheel,"  Dessy  answered  simply.  "Sit  still,  Pa,  and  I'll  get  you 
some  root-beer  off  the  ice!" 

"I've  got  to  dress  and  go  up  to  the  city,"  Harry  explained. 
He  put  into  her  hands  the  telegram.     Dessy  read: 

"Dearest  Pa  sinking,  end  very  near.  Be  brave  as  Fanny  and  I  are  trying 
to  be  brave.     Love.     May." 

The  train  was  hot,  and  littered  with  papers  and  cracker 
crumbs  and  orange  peel  by  travelling  children.  But  Harry  was 
possessed  by  a  sense  of  well-being,  and  enjoyed  the  trip;  he  had 
not  seen  his  native  city  for  some  time,  and  he  felt  the  blowing 
hot  gritty  winds  and  looked  at  the  gray,  dingy  streets  of  wooden 
houses  with  appreciative  eyes.  He  had  money  in  his  purse  to- 
day, and  in  a  few  days  he  would  be  going  back  to  Dessy  and  the 
baby  and  Georgie.  Thinking  that  he  would  go  into  Will  and 
Finck's  and  get  them  all  little  gifts,  he  looked  with  deep  interest 
at  the  shops,  and  the  people,  and  the  cable-cars,  the  blaze  of 
midsummer  flowers  at  Lotta's  Fountain,  the  awnings  so  pleas- 
antly lowered  over  Kearney  Street.  It  was  getting  to  be  a  big 
city,  thought  Harry,  rattling  along  in  a  Valencia  Street  car  to 
the  Mission,  and  Alice.  He  had  determined  upon  a  brief 
glimpse  of  her  before  going  to  San  Rafael. 

He  found  her  house  with  no  trouble,  although  he  had  seen 
it  only  once  before:  a  grim,  gray,  bay-windowed  house  in  a  row, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    465 

with  shades  drawn  against  the  afternoon  sun,  and  papers  and 
chaff  blowing  in  a  lazy  eddy  about  the  area  door.  He  mounted 
the  wooden  outside  steps;  Alice's  grim  servant,  Anna,  opened  the 
door.     Mis'  Babcock  was  in,  she  said.     Would  he  step  in? 

Harry  stepped  into  the  dark  parlour,  with  its  iron  carpets  and 
horsehair  furniture.  There  was  a  clean  rodded  grate,  photo- 
graphs on  plush  and  wooden  frames,  trembling  grass  in  a  blue 
vase  between  two  pink  vases  on  the  mantel.  A  scalloped  cover 
of  fine  plum-coloured  cashmere  covered  the  mantel;  a  similar 
cover  was  upon  the  upright  closed  piano.  Two  patients,  stern- 
looking  women,  in  cotton  gloves,  were  waiting  for  the  doctor. 

After  a  full  five  minutes,  in  which  flies  buzzed  on  the  windows, 
and  cable  cars  droned  by  in  the  street,  Anna  reappeared,  and 
said  that  he  was  please  to  come  upstairs.  To  his  surprise  and 
concern  Harry  then  learned  for  the  first  time  that  Alice  was  not 
well;  she  was  lying  in  her  clean,  flat,  white  bed  in  a  dreary  room 
over  the  front  parlour.  She  wore  a  nightgown  with  a  tucked 
yoke  and  long  sleeves;  her  hair  was  in  a  long  braid. 

"Hello,  Papa!"  she  said,  trying  to  smile.  But  immediately 
she  burst  into  tears;  Harry  sat  beside  her  on  the  bed  and  wiped 
them  away.  But  he  could  not  express  the  distress  and  un- 
easiness her  appearance  and  manner  caused  him,  and  Alice  evi- 
dently had  no  intention  of  expressing  anything  but  happiness  in 
seeing  him  again. 

"Well,  dearie — dearie — "  he  said,  over  and  over  again,  and 
over  and  over  again  she  kissed  him,  with  gradually  lessening 
emotion.  But  even  when  she  was  comparatively  calm,  she 
clung  to  him  still,  and  avoided  certain  too-tender  queries  with  a 
quickly  shaken  head  and  a  resolute  stiffening  of  her  lips. 

They  talked  somewhat  vaguely;  Alice  always  with  a  nervous 
air  of  listening  for  some  interruption  from  without. 

Harry  asked  for  his  grandson. 

" Artie — he's  lovely,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint  cloud  fol- 
lowing the  smile  in  her  eyes.  "He's  not  very  strong,  Papa,  and 
when  I  was  taken  sick  last  week,  Frank  took  him  to  his  cousin, 
in  Berkeley.  I — he's  never  been  away  from  me  before,"  she 
added  quickly,  with  moistening  eyes,  beginning  to  beat  lightly 
on  Harry's  hand,  and  fighting  for  control  of  her  throat  muscles, 
"and  I  felt  very  badly  about  letting  him  go — and  about  1-1-los- 
ing  my  other  dear  little  baby,  too!"  she  burst  out  suddenly, 
turning  about  to  hide  her  face  in  the  pillows  and  beginning  to 


466    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

cry  bitterly.  "I — I  want  Artie  so!  He  always  comes  tod- 
dling in  here,  in  the  mornings,  over  to  me " 

Harry  looked  wildly  about;  this  was  terrible.  She  must  not 
cry  so!  He  patted  her  shoulder,  crammed  his  handkerchief  into 
the  white,  bloodless  hand. 

"Here,"  he  said,  in  his  desperation  hitting  upon  the  one 
thing  that  would  reach  her,  "shall  I  see  if  Frank's  come — shall 
I  call  Anna?" 

"No,  no,  don't  do  that!"  she  stammered,  instantly  controlling 
herself,  but  with  an  effort  he  found  it  painful  to  see.  "I'm — 
I'm  all  right!" 

And  she  began  to  talk  again  of  indifferent  things,  and  did  not 
cry  again,  even  when  he  left  her. 

Harry  walked  away  from  the  house  in  a  rather  depressed 
mood.  He  did  not  like  her  pallid,  cool  face,  her  nervous  manner. 
Her  very  parting  words — "  Please  don't  worry  about  me,  Papa 
darling!  And  please  don't  tell  Mama  anything  that  will  make 
her  feel  she  ought  to  come  out  here" — had  anything  but  an 
assuring  ring. 

He  pondered  sadly  on  the  change  in  her,  as  he  rode  down- 
town on  the  Valencia  Street  car;  it  was  her  illness,  he  thought, 
natural  enough!  She  was  nervous  and  unstrung.  Harry 
thought  that  in  the  event  of  his  father's  death,  or  indeed  in  any 
case,  he  would  see  Alice  again  before  he  left  the  city. 

At  the  ferry  his  memory  was  pleasantly  stirred;  he  had  made 
this  trip  many  times,  seen  these  hurrying  commuters,  the  cir- 
cling gulls,  these  jarring  and  jangling  cable  cars.  The  old  candy 
man  nodded  to  him,  with  a  smile  upon  his  pitted  dark  face,  and 
one  or  two  old  friends  stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

Harry  told  them  seriously  that  his  father  was  low — dying,  he 
supposed.  He  was  on  his  way  home  now.  He  liked  their  con- 
cerned, grave  faces,  their  nodding  "Is  that  so?" 

Presently,  in  the  waiting  room,  Bertie  joined  him.  Bertie 
looked  older,  Harry  thought,  his  mouth  was  lined,  there  was  gray 
in  the  thinning  hair  at  his  temples:  he  seemed  genuinely  pleased 
to  see  his  uncle.  He  gave  Harry  the  news;  Grandpa  had  died  at 
just  noon,  Mama  had  telephoned  Bertie  at  the  office.  Harry 
looked  impressed.  "Is  that  so?"  he  said  heavily,  as  the  other 
men  had  said. 

They  walked  on  the  boat  together  and  sat  talking  of  the  old 
man.     "He  was  quite  a  figure  here,  in  the  early  days,  Bertie," 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    467 

Harry  said  reminiscently,  and  Bertie  said  thoughtfully:  "Yes, 
I  guess  he  was!" 

The  very  last  persons  to  rush  on  the  boat,  almost  missing  it, 
were  Lucy  and  Bob.  Bertie  met  them  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  all  four  sat  together.  Lucy  looked  florid,  and  was  as  usual 
somewhat  oddly  dressed;  she  was  badly  out  of  breath. 

"Heard  how  the  old  man  is?"  Bob  asked,  and  Bertie  answered 
simply: 

"He  died  to-day  at  noon,  Uncle  Bob." 

"Is  that  so?"  Bob  said  profoundly,  after  a  pause.  "You 
don't  tell  me!" 

Lucy  looked  stricken.  She  had  given  Harry  a  kiss  before 
seating  herself,  now  they  all  began  to  talk  of  the  dead  man,  of 
pioneer  days,  the  stock  market,  of  odd  and  fantastic  and  shrewd 
things  Reuben  had  said  and  done,  of  the  stories  men  told  of  him. 

The  boat  careened  mildly  in  the  breeze  from  the  Golden  Gate; 
windows  in  Alcatraz  flashed  in  the  sun,  the  painted  white  rope  of 
the  rail  moved  gently  up  and  down  over  blue  water  and  over 
San  Francisco's  hills. 

"Harry,  it  does  me  good  to  see  you  looking  so  well,"  Lucy 
said  cordially,  after  awhile. 

"I  feel  well,  too,"  Harry  responded.  "You'll  have  to  be 
coming  down  our  way,  Looce,  to  see  how  nicely  weJre  fixed," 
he  added  dutifully. 

"You  see  Georgie  almost  everyday,  don't  you?"  Lucy  asked 
suddenly. 

"Well,  yes,  I  do,  Looce,"  Harry  answered  mildly. 

"Ever  see  his  wife?" 

"Sometimes.     She's  a  nice  little  thing." 

"She's  pretty,"  Lucy  said  briefly,  "and  that's  enough  for  a. 
man.  However,"  she  added,  "the  climate  seems  to  agree  with 
you,  and  that's  the  great  thing.  No,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  get 
down  there.  I'm  helping  Mrs.  Hatch  in  the  Post  Office, you  know, 
and  I  live  with  her.  It  seems  to  me  best,  just  now,  until  you're 
able  to  live  in  San  Francisco  again,  to  leave  things  as  they  are," 
finished  Lucy  with  her  judicial,  capable  air.  "Your  health  is 
the  great  consideration,  you  know!" 

"Well,  I  suppose  so,"  Harry  conceded,  sighing  over  a  great 
wave  of  relief.  He  trembled  for  fear  she  should  change  her 
mind;  reopen  the  subject. 

But  instead  they  were  all  silent,  each  thinking  his  own  thoughts, 


468  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  Harry  was  free  to  return  in  spirit  to  the  little  repair  shop 
with  the  oily  dirty  bicycles  leaning  against  the  door,  and  the 
sunshine  and  shadow  falling  upon  Dessy  and  the  baby,  under  the 
elms.  The  mid-morning  crowing  of  the  cocks,  far  and  near, 
the  sound  of  Georgie's  hammer  and  plane,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
Dessy's  half-articulated  little  song  in  the  kitchen,  all  these  came 
to  him  in  a  pleasant  dream;  his  soul  was  flooded  with  content. 

Bertie  was  in  a  deep  study,  too,  but  it  was  with  stern,  brood- 
ing eyes,  and  with  a  set  mouth.  Look  where  he  would  now- 
adays, there  was  small  comfort  for  him.  With  Lola  he  had  long 
ago  come  to  realize  that  he  had  nothing  in  common;  she  con- 
tributed only  one  problem  after  another  to  his  life.  There 
was  no  companionship,  no  congeniality  between  them;  they  lived 
in  the  same  house,  but  Lola  went  her  way  and  Bertie  his,  and 
there  were  no  more  discussions  and  quarrels.  Lola  was  in- 
capable of  consideration  or  tact;  Bertie  never  spoke  to  her  now- 
adays without  carefully  estimating  first  exactly  what  the  effect 
of  his  words  would  be. 

Bertie  was  a  book-keeper  in  the  catsup  manufactory  of  Painter 
and  Painter.  He  despised  his  work,  it  held  no  future  for  him. 
He  wandered  about  the  piers  during  his  luncheon  hour  every 
day,  and  looked  longingly  at  the  busy  traffic  of  the  bay;  the  big 
liners,  the  coffee  ships,  the  freighters  that  went  to  Guam  and 
Lima  and  Astoria  and  Sydney. 

"Grandpa's  business  was  a  wonderful  chance,  Uncle  Harry," 
he  said  suddenly.  "I  wish  Ld  been  older!  There's  no  reason 
why  Houston  should  have  sapped  it,  as  he  did — we  could  have 
built  up  a  magnificent  trade!  But  Grandpa  was  pretty  old,  and 
Papa  forced  Houston  out,  and  Uncle  Bob  out — just  as  he  did 
you,  for  that  matter!  He  liked  the  feeling  of  being  the  head, 
I  guess.  Poor  Papa!  It  makes  me  sort  of  blue,"  Bertie  added, 
"to  see  him  puttering  around  at  home  and  taking  Mr.  Tasheira's 
check  every  month!" 

Harry  withdrew  his  gaze  from  the  rising  roofs  and  trees  of 
Sausalito,  the  shining  stretch  of  marshes  to  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  He  was  suddenly  smitten  with  a  sensation  of  real 
pity  and  affection  for  this  subdued,  quiet  boy;  even  for  Stephen, 
who  had  never  been  a  good  friend  to  the  Harry  Crabtrees. 

Bertie,  now  that  there  was  only  one  of  the  old  Senoritas  left, 
had  sometimes  thought  longingly  of  the  rancho;  it  must  come 
to  Lola,  and  what  happier  solution  of  their  problem  could  be 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    469 

found  than  that  he  should  live  there  and  manage  it  ?  But  Lola's 
utter  contrariety  had  circumvented  this;  she  had  persuaded  the 
aged  Miss  'Cension  to  put  in  charge  a  handsome  callow  Mexican 
youth  called  Antone,  and  Antone,  Bertie  knew  well,  was  mis- 
managing things  in  every  way.  Lola  flirted  with  him,  in  her 
wild  way,  ignoring  a  pale  Spanish  girl  who  was  Mrs.  Antone, 
and  the  two  Antone  babies.  The  whole  matter  sickened  Bertie; 
he  hated  to  think  about  it. 

"I  guess  he  never  meant  any  harm,  Bertie,"  Harry  said 
mildly.  "Lou's  husband  has  considerable  money,  hasn't  he?" 
he  asked. 

"Millions,"  Bertie  answered,  sighing. 

"Your  wife  gets  her  allowance?"  Lucy  asked  interestedly. 

"Oh,  my,  yes.  He's  very  generous.  He  told  Lola,  when  he 
and  Lou  told  us  that  they  were  married,  that  there  wouldn't  be 
any  difference  about  that.9' 

"Did  Lola  resent  Lou's  marrying  him?"  Lucy  questioned. 

Bertie  smiled  his  wise  and  weary  smile. 

"Oh,  no!"  he  answered  quietly,  with  a  look  of  mild  surprise. 
He  remembered  the  scene  still,  with  a  shudder.  Lola  had  never 
spoken  to  Lou  since,  nor  been  to  his  mother's  house.  Uncle 
Pio  had  come  alone  to  the  rancho  to  say  good-bye  to  his  family, 
Lou  preferring  to  avoid  the  issue.  Oh,  well,  Bertie  thought 
tiredly,  what  was  the  difference? 

^  They  were  at  Sausalito,  where  his  maid  met  them  with  Ber- 
tie's solemn  little  monkey-faced  girl  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Bertie 
had  gone  to  the  rancho,  Mr.  Crabtree  was  please  to  take  Nita  to 
his  mother.  Bertie  took  the  child  eagerly,  kissing  her  brown 
little  face;  she  pawed  his  face  with  her  brown  soft  hands. 

When  they  got  into  the  train  he  saw  Kitty  Barbee  Powers . 
with  a  fat,  heavy-headed  baby  boy  in  her  arms.     Bertie  joined 
her  eagerly;  the  Powers  did  not  live  in  San  Rafael,  and  Bertie  had 
not  seen  her  for  years. 

Kitty,  pretty,  matronly,  a  little  stout,  admired  his  baby 
while  he  made  friends  with  her  silver-headed,  tearful  boy.  She 
had  an  older  child,  she  said,  a  girl.  She  was  well.  Neil  was 
well.     How  were  all  Bertie's  folks  ? 

She  seemed  to  Bertie  everything  that  was  gentle,  womanly, 
and  sweet;  he  liked  her  kindly,  soft  manner  with  Nita,  he  liked 
her  voice.  His  solicitude  hovered  about  her  vaguely;  he  wanted 
to  be  sure  life  was  kind  to  her. 


470    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"  You  look  well,  Kitty.  I'm  glad  Neil's  doing  well.  You  cer- 
tainly have  a  nice  little  boy,"  Bertie  stumbled.  "You — you're 
happy.     I'm  awfully  glad " 

Kitty  looked  at  him  fully;  they  were  nearing  the  station  now, 
Bertie  had  told  her  all  his  news;  they  were  at  ease  again.  And 
they  might  not  meet  again  for  years. 

"You  know  I  left  Neil,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  had  to.  Yes/' 
she  added,  laughing  at  his  expression,  "I  had  to.  He  was  drink- 
ing; you  know  he  always  drank.  But  after  awhile  I  went  back; 
I'd  gone  to  his  mother,  and  he  came  after  me.  Yes,  I'm  happy, 
Bertie.  I  have  the  loveliest  children  a  woman  ever  had.  I'm 
as  happy  as  most  people  are,  I  guess!" 

She  was  forcing  on  the  baby's  velvet  coat.  She  kept  looking 
up  at  Bertie  with  a  philosophic  and  hardy  smile,  and  looking 
down  at  the  limp  arms  of  the  whimpering  baby. 

"Now  give  Uncle  Bertie  a  nice  kiss — no,  a  nice  one,  Neely," 
she  admonished  the  child,  "Give  Aunt  Kitty  a  nice  kiss,  Nita. 
Ah,  that's  a  lovely  kiss!  and  a  bi-i-ig  hug!  Good-bye,  Bertie. 
Give  my  love  to  your  sisters,  and  tell  your  mother  I  sent  my 
sympathy." 

"Good-bye,  Kitty!"  Bertie  went  back  to  his  own  people,  his 
old  serious  look  returning  to  his  face,  his  spirit  sobering  itself  to 
meet  Mama's  first  onslaught  of  grief. 

Tina  was  at  the  doorway  as  her  uncles,  and  Lucy  and 
Bertie,  came  up  the  path.  The  shabby  hallway  behind  her 
was  full  of  summer-time  gloom.  Her  face  was  radiant,  solemn, 
sweet. 

"Gone  from  us  here,  for  a  little  while,"  she  said,  with  her 
welcoming  kisses,  "but  safe — safe  above." 

"Dead,"  Bob  said,  with  a  grave  nod. 

Tina  shut  her  lips,  nodded  in  turn. 

"At  twelve  o'clock.  Just  like  a  weary  child.  Come  and  see 
Mama;  she's  being  so  wonderful  /"  she  said. 

May  was  in  the  back  sitting  room,  panting,  in  a  deep  chair. 
Fanny  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  dry  willows  and 
peppers.  At  the  sight  of  her  brothers,  May's  fat,  soft  old  face 
wrinkled  into  tears. 

"It's  just  we  four,  now!"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  Papa — Papa — 
Papa!" 

"He  went  just  like  a  baby,  at  about  noon,"  Fanny  stated,  a 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    471 

little  huskily,  beating  her  nose  nervously.     May  hugged  Bertie 
convulsively,  her  wet  face  against  his. 

"Go  find  Papa,  darling,"  she  charged  him.  "He's  been  so 
marvellous!  I  think  he  and  Bobo  are  in  the  kitchen — my  boy! 
Did  Lola  mind  your  coming  up  to  Mama,  darling?" 

"Nope,"  Bertie  answered  good-naturedly  and  briefly. 

"Lola  doesn't  let  him  come  see  me  any  more!"  May  said 
tearfully,  to  the  others. 

"She'll  get  over  it!"  Bertie  assured  her,  with  a  faint  im- 
patience. He  went  to  find  his  father,  and  May  padded  her  eyes 
with  a  folded  handkerchief,  and  proceeded  to  give  her  brothers 
an  account  of  the  event. 

"He  hasn't  known  any  of  us  since  last  January,  you  know. 
Except  that  he  would  smile  at  us  sometimes — and  I  think  he 
knew  Carra.     Fanny,  don't  you  think  Pa  knew  Carra?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Fanny  said  with  brisk  firmness, 
from  her  chair,  her  heart  hammering  at  the  mere  mention  of 
Carra. 

"But  yesterday,"  May  resumed,  "yesterday  he  seemed  to 
sink  into  a  sort  of  sleep — he  was  eighty-five,  Bob,"  she  sobbed 
suddenly,  "and  now  I'm  the  oldest — I'm  the  next  one  to  go-o! 
And  I  can  remember  Ma  and  Aunt  Jenny — when  I  was  just  a 
little  bit  of  a  girl,  at  Crabtree's  Crossing !" 

"Ah,  no,  no,  no,  Mama!"  Tina  said  tenderly,  on  her  knees 
beside  her  mother's  chair.  "We're  all  here  about  you,  dear,  and 
Vernon  was  saying  only  this  morning  that  we  all  looked  to  you 
for  courage  and  help.     Please,  Mama " 

May  grew  quieter  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"I  hate  to  think  of  changes,  Harry,"  she  said  plaintively,  to 
her  younger  brother.  " I've  been  here — this  has  been  my  home, 
so  long!  I  suppose  I  think  of  Esme,"  sobbed  May,  "all  the 
associations!" 

This,  addressed  to  Harry,  was  nevertheless  directed  at  Bob. 
Bob  knew  that  Bobo  was  supposedly  to  inherit  the  house,  and 
that  May  naturally  feared  that  he,  as  Bobo's  guardian,  would 
rent  it  or  sell  it.  He  had  not  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  in 
the  matter,  and  he  would  not  commit  himself  now.  But  he 
felt  sorry  for  May. 

"Now — now — now,  don't  you  worry!"  he  said,  patting  her 
heaving,  stout  shoulders.     "Things  aren't  as  bad  as  you  think!" 

May  sniffed,  dried  her  eyes,  and  tried  desperatedly  to  catch 


472    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

up  with  an  undertoned  conversation  between  Lucy  and  Fanny. 

"Might  as  well  be  there  as  in  San  Francisco,  which  I've  al- 
ways hated,"  May  heard.  "Until  Georgie's  wife  apologizes 
— climate,  anyway — that's  the  main  thing,  with  poor  Harry " 

Under  all  her  grief,  May  felt  vexed.  If  Lucy  was  justifying 
herself  for  her  perfectly  extraordinary  conduct  in  living  in  Sac- 
ramento, while  her  own  husband  lived  in  the  same  state,  then 
May  desired  to  add  a  word  or  two  to  that  conversation,  and  give 
Lucy  Crabtree  a  "piece  of  her  mind."  It  was  maddening  to  hear 
Lucy  ending  smoothly  with  a  warning  not  to  discuss  it  before 
poor  Harry  because  he  was  a  little  sensitive  about  it,  and  to  see 
Fanny,  who  hadn't  the  backbone  of  a  mouse,  nodding  abstract- 
edly in  consent. 

Fanny  was  abstracted  because  there  was  an  interruption. 
Carra,  weazened,  trembling,  half-witted  old  servant  that  she 
was,  was  the  most  important  figure  in  this  little  drama,  to 
Fanny.  She  felt  herself  shaking,  when  at  this  moment  Carra 
came  into  the  room. 

"You  Pa's  dead!"  the  old  mulatto  wheezed,  to  Bob.  "You's 
always  his  favourite.  Mist'  Bob.  You  step  up  and  see  whar 
hea-layin'!" 

She  ended  with  an  eldritch  chuckle.  Bob  put  one  arm  about 
her  affectionately. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Carra,"  he  said  kindly.     "We're  going  right 

"One  thing  you-all  don't  know !"  Carra  shrilled,  with 

her  brown  claws  clutching  spasmodically  at  her  flat  breast. 
"You-all  think  you  smart,  but  Queenie  Rowsey " 

Fanny  felt  the  solid  ground  falling  beneath  her  feet.  Harry, 
Bob,  May,  and  Tina  all  would  hear!  The  next  words  would  be 
Pa's  secret  marriage  to  this  dreadful  old  creature 

"Never  mind  now,  we  don't  want  to  hear  about  Queenie 
Rowsey,"  Fanny  interrupted  her  harshly  and  hastily.  "You 
told  me  an  hour  ago  that  you  were  going  to  lie  down,  Carra,  and 
you've  been  in  the  kitchen  with  Queenie  all  this  time — don't 
you  believe  one  word  of  it,  Harry ! "  she  added  agitatedly.  "  It's 
ridiculous !  The  poor  old  creature  doesn't  know  what  she's  say- 
ing, anyway,"  Fanny  went  on  a  little  more  quietly,  as  Carra 
wavered  away,  "and  listening  to  her's  an  utter  waste  of  time!" 

"Well,  but — good  Lord,  Fanny! — you  shut  the  poor  old  girl 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  473 

up  fast  enough,"  Bob  said,  between  surprise  and  amusement. 
"What  on  earth  had  she  done  to  get  herself  hustled  off  that 
way?" 

"Nothing  at  all!"  Fanny  answered,  somewhat  heatedly,  and 
batting  her  nose.  "But  I  get  tired  listening  to  her,  that's  all! 
Lawsy,  I  don't  suppose  we  have  to  stand  upon  our  p's  and  q's 
with  Pa  lying  dead  in  the  house!" 

"Oh,  hush!"  May  whimpered  softly.  Immediately  they  all 
went  upstairs,  and  into  old  Reuben's  room. 

The  oldest  son  of  Annie  Ballard  and  George  William  Crabtree 
had  reached  the  end  of  his  long  pilgrimage.  His  chamber — 
that  chamber  that  had  been  so  oddly  peopled  with  ghosts,  for 
the  past  days  of  feeble  struggle  with  breath — was  silent  now,  and 
in  stilly  order.  He  had  been  seeing  odd  snatches  of  the  eighty- 
five  years  come  and  go  dreamily:  San  Francisco  harbour  filled 
with  neglected  ships,  Lulu  Potts  in  hoopskirts,  with  brown 
ringlets  on  her  firm  neck,  fat  babies  in  scalloped,  sleeveless  little 
frocks,  dark  men  raging  in  the  wake  of  the  Vigilante  Commit- 
tee, ferry  boats  cutting  their  way  across  the  bay  for  the  first 
time.  He  had  remembered  prairie  schooners,  rumbling  on  in 
blowing  winds  and  slashing  rains;  he  had  remembered  a  quarrel 
with  the  builder  of  the  San  Rafael  mansion. 

And  finally  he  had  seemed  to  see  the  smoke-seasoned  main 
room  in  the  cabin  at  Crabtree's  Crossing,  snow  in  a  blue  whirl 
outside,  and  laughing,  perspiring  young  men  and  women  busy 
with  an  odorous  "molasses  stew."  A  little  boy  had  been  lying 
in  the  gay  calico  folds  of  one  woman's  lap,  looking  at  the  flaming 
fire,  drowsing  and  waking,  and  now  and  then  his  mother  had  put 
her  young  face  down  to  kiss  his  little  bandaged  thumb. 

How  had  he  burned  his  thumb — cut  his  thumb?  Or  was  it  a 
bee  sting?  Reuben  Crabtree,  dying,  more  than  eighty  years 
later,  could  not  remember.  But  he  remembered  the  loving, 
plain  young  face,  the  drooping  curls  of  dark-brown  hair,  the 
smile  that  bent  above  him  in  the  warm  firelight.  And  from  this 
dream  he  roused  to  the  last  agonized  need  of  breath — breath — 
air 

Now  he  lay  still,  an  insignificant  little  figure  under  a  straight 
white  sheet.  And  Harry  and  Bob  stood  still,  watching  him 
with  uncomfortable  faces,  not  quite  sure  of  what  they  ought 
to  say,  if  anything — to  feel,  in  any  case.     May  sniffed  audibly; 


474  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

she  was  quite  at  home  here  already.  Fanny  had  gone  to  lie 
down. 

Bob  thought,  "I  wonder  how  long  we  stand  here?  He  was 
pretty  small — Lord,  how  his  face  has  sunk  in!  Teeth,  maybe. 
No  sense  in  standing  here  this  way " 

Harry  felt  confused  and  a  little  sorry,  but  he  thought  sud- 
denly of  a  bowl  of  cold  mush  that  he  had  stuck  almost  out  of 
sight  under  the  porch,  on  a  beam.  It  had  been  intended  for  the 
chickens.  It  would  sour,  this  weather,  and  Dessy  would  need 
the  bowl 

"Poor  Pa!"  he  murmured  aloud.     And  Bob  echoed  in  relief: 

"Poor  Pa!" 

"I  wonder  if  he  doesn't  know  that  we're  all  standing  here!" 
Tina,  who  had  come  noiselessly  in,  said  softly. 

Bob  and  Harry  sighed,  and  shook  their  heads,  and  for  a  few 
moments  more  they  remained  standing,  looking  very  grave. 

Sunshine  battered  at  the  drawn  shades;  the  shabby  old  room 
was  full  of  luminously  swelling  and  receding  lights.  A  few 
flies  circled  in  the  soft  gloom,  alighting  now  and  then  on  the 
sheet.  Life  moved  even  in  the  motes  that  danced  in  the  for- 
bidden tiny  shafts  of  sunlight.  But  Reuben  Crabtree  did  not 
move,  and  Bob  felt  the  muscles  of  his  own  face  stiffen  as  he 
watched  that  immobile  mask  of  sleep. 

About  Reuben  were  his  household  gods:  a  crayon  enlargement 
from  a  photograph  of  his  wife,  her  mouth  firm  over  false  teeth, 
her  broad  bosom  ornamented  with  velvet  scallops  and  ball 
buttons;  the  purple  plush  rocker;  the  walnut  table  with  a  mar- 
ble top;  the  fringed  receptable  for  newspapers;  the  china  lamp 
with  butterflies  and  pink  daisies  on  the  shade;  the  colourless 
dark  carpet,  and  fringed  window  curtains  of  maroon  rep.  Among 
these  had  he  moved  for  years,  bending  them  to  his  comfort. 
Now  any  one  of  them  seemed  to  hold  more  life  than  he. 

"We  must  all  come  to  it,"  sighed  May,  on  a  long,  hitching 
breath. 

"I  suppose  so!"  Bob  found  that  his  dry  throat  made  only  a 
confused  sound.  "I  suppose  so!"  he  said  louder,  clearing  his 
throat. 

Awkwardly  and  mournfully  they  filed  from  the  room. 

Fanny  was  dutifully  lying  down,  but  her  thoughts  were  in 
an  agony  of  hurry  and  confusion.     No  bodily  rest  was  possible 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         475 

while  they  raced  and  tumbled  so  maddeningly.  It  was  six 
o'clock;  she  had  had  little  to  eat,  all  day,  and  her  head  ached. 
Terrifying  visions  possessed  her. 

She  had  known  Pa's  secret  all  these  years.  Could  they  arrest 
her  for  that?  Well,  if  they  did,  she  would  simply  serve  her 
term  and  come  out  again.  A  lot  she  cared  what  people  thought ! 
She  would  have  Aunt  Jenny's  money — anyway 

A  disturbing  thought  came  to  her;  where  had  she  heard  the 
expression  "lawyer's  fees  and  costs"?  Might  they  force  her  to 
pay  these? 

And  the  newspaper  headlines!  "Death  Bares  Secret  Mar- 
riage." There  would  be  a  Crabtree  scandal,  like  the  Baker 
scandal.  Poor  Lily  and  Daisy  Baker  had  inherited  nothing, 
after  all,  and  Lily,  people  said,  had  gotten  her  divorce  because 
Elmer  Duvalette  acted  so  disgracefully  about  it.  A  mulatto — 
Mrs.  Reuben  Crabtree!     It  wasn't  bearable 

Of  Queenie  Rowsey,  Fanny  thought  with  something  like 
hatred.  The  stupid,  big  young  negress  had  somehow  gravitated 
to  San  Rafael,  in  the  past  year,  and  was  doing  day's  work.  She 
had  been  employed  in  May's  kitchen  since  yesterday.  Fanny 
felt  herself  hideously  responsible  for  her  extravagances  and 
vagaries.  Queenie  was  a  beggar,  a  thief,  an  idler,  a  malingerer 
already;  what  would  she  be  when  she  learned  of  the  actual  hold 
she  had  upon  the  decency  of  the  family?  Queenie  inhabited  a 
tumbledown  two-room  shack  a  few  hundred  feet  away;  it  had 
been  a  builder's  tool  house,  and  why  the  Fosters  left  it  standing, 
Fanny  irritably  wondered. 

Pa  dead — it  seemed  so  strange!  If  Bobo  remained  here,  and 
May  and  Stephen  continued  to  live  in  the  old  house,  Fanny  saw 
no  reason  why  she  herself  should  not  stay.  She  and  Pa  had 
been  paying  eighty  dollars  a  month;  half  that  would  not 
be  so  much.  Bob  paid  board  for  Bobo — but  that  would  stop 
now 

She  sat  up,  her  heart  thundering.  There  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  the  round  and  shining  black  face  of  Queenie  appeared. 
Fanny  felt  sick  with  apprehension. 

"I  ain'  goin'  to  git  nobody  no  dinner,  Miss  Fan,"  Queenie 
stated,  entering.  Fanny  could  only  eye  her  in  wild  surmise. 
"I  got  to  step  back,"  announced  Queenie  importantly.  "My 
aunt  Carra  she  jus'  lay  on  her  baid,  and  pass  out  like  she  a 
baby — Yes'm,  she  daid.     I  walk  home  with  her,  en  she  savin' 


476    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

'Queenie,  seem  lak  my  haid  hu't! ' — en  she  lay  down — frow  her 
se'f  down  lak " 

There  was  more,  but  Fanny  did  not  hear  it.  She  sat  staring 
at  Queenie  in  an  agony  of  apprehension. 

"Mah  husban'  dat  I  am*  leP  yet,"  Queenie  was  saying,  "he 
got  a  letter  Pum  Aunt  Carra,  en  she  say — yes'm,  en  she  sign  hit, 
too,  she  sign  it  'Carra  Normaysey' — dat's  her  name,  Miss  Fan, 
Carra  Normaysey — en  she  say  she  want  dat  I  should  have  her 
money  and  her  furmcher  en  her  clo'es,  yes'm." 

"When  did  she  write  that  letter,  Queenie?"  Fanny  asked 
with  dry  lips. 

"She  write  hit  on  Sunday,  when  her  haid  feelin'  queer,  en 
she  say  hit's  a  las'  willum  tesmunt,"  Queenie  supplied  gar- 
rulously. "She  a  widow,  Miss  Fan.  She  ma'ied  fifty  yeahs 
ago,  mo'less,  en  her  husban'  die  inna  mines,"  the  mulatto 
added,  chewing  gum  mournfully  as  she  talked.  "He  name 
'Quincer  Normaysey/  cause  Aunt  Carra  she  have  his  Bible " 

She  knew  nothing.  She  knew  nothing!  Nobody  knew  now 
but  Fanny,  and  Fanny  felt  the  warm  blood  coming  back  into  her 
heart.      She  put  her  feet  to  the  floor,  reached  for  her  slippers. 

"Our  dear  old  Carra  gone!"  she  said  in  a  shocked  and  sym- 
pathetic voice.  "Well,  well,  well.  This  will  be  a  real  loss  to 
us  all,  Queenie,  on  top  of  the  greater  loss.  Certainly,  I  will 
see  that  somebody  gets  dinner — you'd  like  your  money  now, 
wouldn't  you?  No,  don't  bother  about  the  change — that's  all 
right.  Keep  it.  And  let  us  know,  of  course — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brewer  will  feel  so  badly  about  this " 

"Albut  goin'  to  see  'bout  her  fumeral  'surance,"  Queenie 
said,  soothed  and  gratified,  preceding  Fanny  downstairs,  "en 
I  reck'n  we  lay  her  with  mah  firs'  husban'.  Albut  say  she  got 
some  money  in  bank.  So  I  guess  I  ain't  come  back  to  wuk  for 
you,  Miss  Fan." 

"That's  all  right,  Queenie,"  Fanny  assured  her,  with  kindly 
heartiness.  "Tina,"  she  added,  waylaying  her  niece  in  the 
lower  hallway,  "go  tell  your  mother,  dear.  Queenie  tells  me  that 
dear  old  Carra  walked  to  her  cottage,  and  lay  down,  and  died 
almost  immediately!" 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  Tina  ejaculated,  wide-eyed.  And  im- 
mediately the  elated  Queenie  was  the  centre  of  a  sympathetic 
group. 

"You    know    that    you    have    our    heartiest    condolences, 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         477 

Queenie,"  Stephen  said,  with  his  pleasant  old  blue  eyes  shining 
above  his  gray  beard.  "There  was  a  time  when  we  might  have 
made  you  a  more  substantial  offering,  but " 

"It's  the  spirit  that  really  counts,"  May  said  tenderly,  and 
Stephen  showed  his  full  lower  lip  in  a  dreamy  smile,  as  he  nodded 
his  head  in  assent. 

Queenie  departed,  and  over  their  quiet  cup  of  tea  a  little  later 
May  told  Fanny  that  she  must  have  gotten  some  good  sleep, 
she  looked  like  a  different  woman. 

Davy  Dudley  came  in,  serious  and  shabby,  anxious  to  be  help- 
ful. Vicky  was  well  when  she  had  written,  a  few  days  ago,  he 
said.  The  boy  was  splendid.  Yes,  he  missed  them  both;  he 
was  busy,  but  it  was  a  little  slow.  He  sat  between  Vernon 
and  Bertie,  and  May  eyed  them  all  with  pride:  three  rather 
tired,  somewhat  uninteresting  young  men  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  but  to  her  fond  optimism  three  splendid  sons.  To  see 
Tina  fluttering  over  Vernon's  cocoa  shells — she  would  not  let 
him  drink  tea  at  night — to  have  Davy's  report  on  her  grandson, 
and  to  speak  of  Lou  as  being  at  sea — dear  child,  she  would  get  this 
sad  news  when  thousands  of  miles  away  from  home  and  family! 
— was  soothing,  even  now,  to  May.  Bobo  sat  next  to  her,  and 
she  mothered  him  tenderly;  she  meant  to  hold  Bobo  and  Bobo's 
house,  if  she  could.  She  was  not  hungry,  but  she  ate  something 
under  Stephen's  kindly  sternness. 

After  all,  there  was  not  an  adequate  representation  of  the  fam- 
ily at  the  funeral.  Stephen  was  there  to  take  May  into  church, 
Fanny  was  on  Bob's  arm.  Harry  walked  with  Tina  and  Lucy. 
Bertie  was  there  for  a  few  minutes,  but  could  not  even  come  to 
attend  the  interment  or  come  back  to  the  house;  neither  Alice 
nor  Frank  Babcock  came,  although — as  May  said  apathetically — • 
"it  was  in  the  paper." 

Of  the  others,  Lou  and  Pio  were  on  the  high  seas,  Georgie  and 
his  wife  did  not  come  from  San  Jose,  nor  Vicky  from  Napa,  nor 
Lola  from  the  ranch.  Davy,  who  had  said  that  he  would  make 
it  if  he  could,  but  that  he  was  busiest  in  the  mornings,  was  con- 
sidered to  have  an  honourable  alibi.  From  Nelly,  in  San  Bruno, 
no  word  at  all  was  received.  Vernon  of  course  officiated  in  the 
church. 

A  few  of  the  old  friends  came;  not  many.  Old  Tom  Wesley, 
who  had  been  nursed  through  scurvy  by  Pa  in  1863,  and  old  Mrs. 


478  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

Pembroke,  and  the  Rossis  and  Fendersons  and  Cranes.  But 
none  of  them  followed  to  the  graveyard;  May  assumed  later 
that  they  all  sensed  that  the  family  would  rather  be  alone 
there. 

And  of  this  shrunken  family  there  were  even  fewer  present 
at  the  reading  of  the  will,  three  days  later.  Harry,  apologetic 
but  firm,  had  gone  back  to  San  Jose  on  the  very  evening  of 
the  funeral.  His  heart  yearned  for  his  grandson,  for  his  chick- 
ens, for  Georgie's  serious  voice  and  Dessy's  babyish  affection. 
To  miss  three  suppers,  two  breakfasts,  three  luncheons,  was  a 
real  loss  to  Harry.  He  wanted  his  old  clothes,  his  delicious 
freedom  and  usefulness.  In  San  Francisco,  he  did  try  to  see 
Alice.  But  the  servant  told  him  coldly  that  Mis'  Babcock  was 
drivin'  with  the  doctor,  she  was  well  again,  and  the  little  boy 
was  comm*  home  to-morrow,  and  with  that  brighter  intelligence 
of  Alice,  Harry  was  only  too  glad  to  hurry  to  Fourth  and  Town- 
send  Street,  and  leave  the  grime  and  winds  of  the  city  behind  him 
again. 

Bertie  could  not  get  away  from  business,  and  Davy's  interest 
in  the  will  of  his  wife's  grandfather  was  so  slight  that  there  was 
no  question  of  his  coming.  Vernon  pleaded  a  sermon;  he  was 
represented  by  Tina,  who  brought  the  children,  and  occasion- 
ally interrupted  proceedings  by  going  to  the  door  and  whisper- 
ing to  them  to  be  quiet — Mama  was  coming  right  out.  Bobo 
was  choo-choo-ing  up  and  down  the  side  porch  audibly,  as  Mr. 
Saunders  dispassionately  proceeded  through  legal  terms  and 
repetitions. 

The  family,  comfortably  grouped,  listened  gravely.  Stephen 
was  in  a  large  chair  beside  May,  their  hands  clasped.  Fanny, 
looking  alert  and  suspicious,  occupied  an  armchair,  and  con- 
tinually adjusted  a  large  cushion  at  her  back.  Lucy  sat  with 
her  full  firm  arm  resting  on  the  table,  her  frog-like  eyes  atten- 
tive, her  head  judicially  tipped  to  one  side;  Bob  sat  on  the  old 
sofa,  listening,  nodding,  not  too  seriously  concerned,  but  in- 
telligent. Saunders,  the  old  lawyer,  was  at  the  table  opposite 
Lucy.  What  he  read  became  less  and  less  comprehensible  to 
his  audience;  his  words  droned  in  the  warm,  shaded  room. 

".  .  .  in  the  event  of  the  decease  of  the  said  Lulu  Potts 
Crabtree  previously  to  .  .  .  hereby  decreed  and  granted 
in  compliance  with  the  conditions  of  Article  Four  .  .  .  not 
to  exceed  the  sum  heretofore  mentioned.     .     .     . 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE    479 

"Signed:  Reuben  Elliott  Crabtree  Witnessed  by  Jerome 
E.  Saunders,  and  Samuel  L.  Doggett." 

"And  there  is  an  envelope  here,"  said  Saunders  quietly,  when 
he  finished  reading.  "It  is  marked  'For  Carra.'  I  presume 
we  may  open  this.     .     .     .  " 

He  did  open  it:  it  was  full  of  greenbacks.  Saunders  counted 
them  quietly,  in  a  dead  silence.  Everyone  looked  steadily  at 
him,  no  eyes  wavered. 

"Two  thousand  dollars,"  he  announced,  with  a  great  sigh. 
"Well,  I  think — since  the  old  servant  is  dead,  and  no  mention  of 
her  name  occurs  in  the  will,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "that 
this  will  naturally  lapse  to  the  estate.  I  will  deposit  it  with 
the  other  securities  this  afternoon.  Yes.  I  can  attend  to 
that.     ..." 

Everyone  felt  that  this  was  a  satisfactory  disposition  of  this 
detail:  Bob  immediately  possessed  himself  of  the  envelope 
and  tore  it  into  fine  scraps;  it  was  never  mentioned  again. 

But  the  expectant  tension  in  the  room  was  not  appreciably 
lightened.  May  and  Fanny  exchanged  grave  yet  interrogative 
glances,  even  Bob  looked  a  trifle  nonplussed,  and  Lucy  spoke 
boldly. 

"But  there's  another  will — that's  terribly  old.  Don't  you 
remember  the  will  we  all  talked  about — in  the  California  Street 
house,  that  Sunday?" 

Everyone  felt  grateful  to  Lucy  for  voicing  this  question;  its 
propriety  was  debatable,  but  they  all  were  thinking  it. 

"What  is  the  date  of  this  document?"  Stephen  asked. 

May  felt  that  wisdom  had  spoken,  and  said,  "Exactly!" 

"February  12th,  1871,"  old  Saunders  said.  "Your  father 
never  signed  the  will  I  drew  up  for  him  in  1889.  I  reminded 
him  of  it  more  than  once.  'Come  now,  Rube,'  I  used  to  say-^- 
he  was  considerably  older  than  I  was,  four  or  five  years,  but  we 
were  young  men  together — 'Come  now,  Rube,  let's  finish  up 
this  little  bit  of  business.'     No,  sir;  wouldn't  do  it." 

"But  that  will  is  twenty-five  years  old;  Ma  was  living  then," 
Fanny  protested.     "I  don't  understand  it " 

"I  get  the  house!"  May  added,  anxious  but  sure. 

"Yes,  vou  get  the  house,  May,"  Bob  assured  her  soothingly. 
Stephen,  intensely  puzzled,  was  merely  looking  profound. 

" Bob,  you  get  the  Santa  Clara  piece!"  Lucy  exclaimed.  She 
did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  look  apologetic;  Bob  had 


48o    CERTAIN  PEOPLE .  OF  IMPORTANCE 

paid  seven  hundred  dollars  for  Harry's  presumptive  interest  in 
that  property. 

" Let's  go  over  this,"  suggested  Bob.  "Just  what  did  my 
father  leave?  The  will  is  too  old  to  be  much  use.  You  see 
he  leaves  his  interests  in  the  firm  to  my  brother  Harry  and 
me — we  were  both  with  him  then.  Now,  of  course,  he  has  no 
interests  in  the  firm.  He  leaves  the  Filmore  Street  property  to 
Fan " 

"But  I  understand  that  he  no  longer  owns  that  property?" 
questioned  old  Saunders,  who  was  rustling  and  glancing  at 
papers  in  a  business-like  fashion. 

"No,"  Bob  answered  frankly.  "I  own  it.  There  were  some 
old  sheds  on  it  that  my  father  rented  for  stables,  and  he  mort- 
gaged the  piece  as  heavily  as  it  would  carry.  Some  years  ago, 
when  he  was  going  to  let  the  whole  thing  slip,  I  assumed  the 
mortgage,  and  he  gave  me  a  deed  of  gift.  I've  put  some  flats 
and  stores,  there,"  finished  Bob. 

"And  now  do  those  belong  to  me?"  Fanny  asked,  with  an 
eager  glint  in  her  eye. 

Only  May  paid  any  attention  to  this  remark.  May  looked 
interestedly  and  alertly  at  Bob  and  the  lawyer,  less  hopefully 
at  Stephen,  and  then  with  mild  pity  at  Fanny. 

"I  get  this  house,"  she  said  softly. 

"Your  father  managed  his  own  affairs,  very  often  against 
my  advice,  until  almost  the  end,"  old  Saunders  said.  "He  had 
invested  pretty  heavily  in  the  'Three  Toms'  mine,  some  years 
ago,  I  don't  think  he  ever  lost  faith  in  it,  and  I  imagine  that 
certain  large  sums,  which  he  acquired  from  time  to  time,  he 
paid  into  that  for  various  assessments.  He  sold  some  of  the 
property  about  this  house — sometimes  he  had  me  invest  it  in 
bonds,  sometimes  he  made  no  mention  of  it  to  me  whatever " 

"Then  there  are  some  bonds!"  cried  Fanny.  She  felt  her- 
self an  authority  on  bonds. 

"There  are  eighteen  bonds,"  Saunders  said.  "Those  were 
left  to  your  late  mother,"  he  told  Bob,  "I  presume  they  will  be 
divided  among  her  natural  heirs."     He  turned  to  Fanny. 

"And  I  think  some  bonds  belonging  to  you,  under  the  will 
of  the  aunt  deceased  in  1876,  are  in  your  late  father's  safe-de- 
posit box  at  the  Bank,  Miss  Crabtree?"  he  said.  "Did  you 
wish  them  to  remain  there?  Will  you  communicate  with  the 
Bank?     Some  of  them  are  practically  valueless,  still — ■ — " 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  481 

"Practically  valueless!"  gasped  Fanny,  turning  brick-colour. 

"You  must  be  aware  that  several  of  those  companies  have 
been  paying  no  interest  for  several  years?"  the  lawyer  asked 
mildly.  "I  have  made  a  note  here.  The  California  Sugar 
Refining  Company — sixes;  January  and  July.  Bought  at  75; 
now  worth  26.  The  San  Joachim  Fruit  Company — fives. 
Bought  at  71;  now  worth  nothing.  I  don't  believe  that  com- 
pany will  ever  get  on  its  feet  again.  The  Pacific  Light  and 
Power  is  in  pretty  good  shape — -fairly  good  shape,  and  I  don't 
think  the  Contra  Costa  Transit  Company's  bonds  will  go  any 
lower.  They've  been  at  62  for  a  long  while — your  aunt  bought 
them  at  95,  if  I  remember  correctly.     Yes." 

And  Saunders  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them  negligently 
with  gentle  little  motions  of  a  thumb  and  middle-finger. 

Fanny  sat  dazed  and  terrified,  as  a  general  conversation  went 
on.  What  was  this  hideous  earthquake  that  threatened  the 
solid  structure  of  her  world?  How  dared  they  say  that  Aunt 
Jenny's  bonds — that  precious  inheritance  that  had  coloured  all 
her  life — were  questionable?  She,  Fanny,  had  done  nothing  to 
deserve  this !  She  had  not  speculated,  like  other  foolish  women, 
she  had  never  risked  one  penny! 

True,  when  her  half-yearly  check  had  come  in,  of  late  years, 
it  had  been  smaller  than  formerly.  But  then  it  had  always 
come,  and  Fanny  was  thrifty,  and  had  always  managed  to  have 
a  comfortable  balance  to  draw  against,  at  the  Bank.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  complained,  years  ago,  to  her  father.  "Hard 
times,  Fan!"  he  had  told  her,  chuckling.  She  had  never  had 
any  further  explanation.  She  had  resigned  herself  to  these  un- 
pleasant hard  times,  rejoicing  in  every  item  of  her  personal  ex- 
penses that  might  be  put  upon  her  father's  bills,  and  pleased 
when  their  return  to  San  Rafael  resulted  in  definite  economies 
for  herself. 

But  that  anything  could  ever  menace  her  capital  was  un- 
believable! What  was  it  to  be  rich,  if  this  sort  of  thing  might 
spring  at  one  out  of  the  void  ? 

"Then  I  suppose  I'm  a  pauper?"  she  suddenly  interrupted  the 
murmuring  of  the  men  to  ask  bitterly. 

"No,  no,  no!"  Bob  reassured  her,  smiling.  "You're  just 
where  you  were,  Fan.  You'll  go  on  getting  your  coupons  cashed, 
just  the  same — your  income's  no  less.  It's  just  that  a  lot  of 
those  bonds  have  depreciated.     See?" 


482    CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

"The  house  is  mine,"  May  murmured,  to  nobody  in  particu- 
lar.    The  oftener  she  said  it,  the  more  secure  she  felt. 

"This  house,  yes,"  Saunders  took  her  up.  "There  is  a  mort- 
gage upon  it,  I  believe?" 

"Oh,  no!"  May  protested,  aghast. 

"There's  a  four  thousand  dollar  mortgage;  the  place  would  be 
valued  at  about  ten,"  Bob  said. 

"About  ten  /"  May  stammered.  "Bob  Crabtree — you  know 
what  this  place  cost?  Why,  it's  a  show  place.  It's  worth 
forty  thousand  if  it's  worth  a  nickel!" 

"No,  no,  May,"  Stephen  corrected  her  mildly,  "your  father's 
been  selling  these  lots  for  fourteen  and  fifteen  hundred.  We 
have  two  lots " 

"  But  the  house,  Steve,  with  the  electric  lights  and  the  hard- 
wood floor  in  the  hall!  And  eighteen  rooms  not  counting  the 
cupola " 

"The  house  isn't  worth  much,  May,"  Rob  said.  "It's  pretty 
much  of  an  old  barn,  you  know.     These  wooden  houses " 

"I  never  heard  such  nonsense!"  May  said  indignantly.  "A 
barn — your  own  beautiful  home  that  your  father  built!  And  a 
mortgage — I  never  heard  anything  about  a  mortgage  and  I 
don't  believe  Pa " 

"You  can  pay  that  off  with  your  share  of  the  money,"  Lucy 
suggested  soothingly.  Her  frog-like  eyes  were  keen  with  in- 
terest and  pleasure.  Harry  would  have  a  slice  of  that  legacy, 
too.  As  for  the  Santa  Clara  piece,  for  which  they  had  received 
several  hundreds  from  Bob — well,  Bob  was  prospering,  he  was 
a  well-to-do  man.  Lucy  began  to  think  about  catching  the  five- 
fifteen  train. 

She  and  Bob  left  San  Rafael  together,  quite  openly,  at  half- 
past  three.  The  lawyer  had  already  gone.  May  and  Fanny 
watched  them  go,  Lucy  stocky  and  dowdy,  and  yet  somehow 
with  her  baffling  air  of  alertness  and  young  energy;  Bob  tall  and 
lean,  grizzled,  and,  as  usual,  utterly  indifferent  to  appearances. 
Lucy  was  going  back  to  Sacramento?  Good,  so  was  he.  He 
kissed  Bobo,  Lucy  kissed  his  sisters;  they  were  gone. 

"Well,  I  never  saw  anything  as  calm  as  that!"  Fanny  com- 
mented to  May  briefly.  May  merely  raised  her  eyebrows. 
Tina,  with  murmurs  and  embraces,  led  the  Yelland  babies 
homeward.  The  sun,  hotly  descending,  sent  blazing  shafts  of 
light  through  the  shabby  old  willows  and  eucalyptus  trees;  the 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE         483 

carpenters  on  the  little  new  house  that  stood  where  the  old 
vegetable  garden  used  to  be  packed  up  their  tools  and  disap- 
peared; the  old  house  settled  into  afternoon  peace. 

Stephen,  Fanny,  and  May  sat  down  in  shabby  old  wicker 
rockers,  on  the  side  porch.  Now  and  then  a  wagon  rattled 
unseen  down  the  street,  or  voices  and  footsteps  approached,  grew 
audible,  and  faded  away,  from  the  direction  of  the  sidewalk. 
Stephen  was  weary:  he  dozed. 

Fanny  was  thinking  hard,  her  eyes  alert,  her  hard  chin  cupped 
in  a  hard  hand.  She  would  certainly  meet  Mr.  Saunders  in 
town  to-morrow — nobody  was  going  to  get  the  better  of  her  just 
because  she  was  a  woman!  In  any  case,  from  now  on  she  would 
handle  her  money  herself,  every  precious  dollar.  Pa's  death 
had  always  seemed  to  her  as  an  indefinite  point  from  which  to 
date  very  definite  changes.  But  these  changes  seemed  oddly 
unlikely  to  materialize.  Pa  was  dead,  and  Carra  was  dead; 
the  exquisite  relief  brought  by  the  latter  event  still  possessed 
Fanny.  In  short,  she  reflected,  as  she  grew  rested  and  more 
calm,  there  was  nothing  really  to  worry  about.  Still,  she 
seemed  to  miss  some  expected  sensation. 

"Don't  get  your  feet  wet,  dearie!"  she  said  crisply  to  Bobo, 
who  was  drenching  the  garden.  Bobo  looked  impressed,  and 
with  his  dragging  hose,  moved  discreetly  out  of  sight. 

May  mused  also,  with  a  surprising  amount  of  content.  It 
had  always  been  a  landmark  ahead  for  her,  too,  Pa's  death, 
attended  by  various  apprehensions,  hopes,  questions.  Now  it 
was  all  over.  There  was  no  fortune  to  inherit,  as  there  had 
been  when  first  May's  thought  had  begun  to  speculate  upon  the 
day  when  "something  would  happen"  to  Pa.  That  part  of  it 
had  been  alarmingly  changed;  May  had  expected  the  house, 
and  Stephen  the  business.  But  the  business  was  gone,  and  even 
the  house  anything  but  the  proud  inheritance  she  had  thought 
it.     A  mortgaged  old  barn,  indeed!     It  was  preposterous! 

Still,  Mr.  Saunders  had  certainly  been  extremely  sensible 
about  that  envelope  marked  for  Carra,  and  he  would  probably 
be  equally  considerate  in  the  little  matter  of  clearing  up  May's 
inheritance  before  she  received  it.  There  would  be  some  money; 
Pa's  illness  had  cost  almost  nothing,  and  his  interment  had  been 
simple.  He  himself  had  erected  the  stone  that  now  stood  over 
both  himself  and  Ma;  it  had  been  standing  now  for — May 
sighed — twenty-three  years.     How  short  they  seemed,  looking 


484  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

back;  yet  Ma  had  died  a  comparatively  young  woman,  and  Pa 
was  old  when  he  went. 

"My  goodness,  Ma  was  only  my  age!"  May  reflected  un- 
comfortably. She  herself  felt  quite  young,  in  her  heart;  a  con- 
viction of  years  was  always  most  reluctantly  forced  upon  her. 
"Fm  a  grandmother,  too!"  she  reminded  herself,  suddenly 
struck  with  the  familiar  fact. 

Pa  dead — and  yet  the  world  was  not  changed!  Things  would 
go  on  just  as  usual  to-morrow;  Fanny  would  cut  some  roses  for 
the  Woman's  Exchange,  and  whisk  about  in  increasing 
excitement  until  she  departed  for  the  ten  o'clock  train.  Stephen 
would  read  the  paper  thoroughly  and  edify  his  womenkind 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  with  a  hundred  interesting  items  that  had 
escaped  them.  Dear  Tina  would  come  over  to  wield  a  brisk 
glass-towel  on  breakfast  plates  and  cups,  while  Vernon  and  Vera 
played  with  Bobo  under  the  willows.  There  would  be  pleasant 
family  discussion  in  connection  with  poor  Pa's  shrunken  estate; 
there  would  be  moments  of  debate  over  expenses.  The  mail 
man  would  come,  and  the  fruit-Chinaman  with  his  dangling 
baskets  of  figs  and  tomatoes  and  corn. 

There  might  be  one  of  Vicky's  giddy  spirited  letters;  or  even 
a  line  from  Lou.  Now  and  then  Alice  and  her  husband  and  the 
little  boy  came  to  San  Rafael  for  a  Sunday  outing,  and  they  al- 
ways stopped  for  a  call. 

And  then  there  was  always  darling  Bertie;  so  much  more 
Mama's  boy  now  than  ever,  when  Lola  had  proved  so — well, 
such  a  child.  After  all,  he  had  been  saved  from  Kitty  Barbee's 
clutches,  and  Lola's  uncle  had  generously  taken  for  granted 
the  continuance  of  her  splendid  allowance,  even  after  his  mar- 
riage. Bertie's  problems,  his  mother  was  sure,  would  all  "turn 
out  right." 

When  all  was  said  and  done,  she,  sitting  here  wearily  and  com- 
fortably dreaming,  was  May  Crabtree  Brewer,  the  head  now  of 
one  of  the  oldest  of  the  California  First  Families,  and  she  had 
married  off  her  three  girls  and  her  son;  no  old  maids  in  her 
family!  None,  that  is,  except  Fan,  whose  fortune  was  a  pleas- 
ant thought,  just  now.  Fanny  might  easily  have  been  a  bur- 
den; lots  of  unmarried  sisters  were!  As  it  was,  she  would  leave 
something  to  Tina's  children — Vicky's  children — or  even  to 


May 


"We'd  be  just  lone  women  if  it  wasn't  for  Stephen  being 


CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE  485 

here,  so  wonderfully  good  and  helpful!"  May  thought.  "I  wish 
people  appreciated  him  more;  he  seems  to  me  wiser  and  better 
every  day  that  I  live!" 

Bob  would  go  on  paying  board  for  Bobo,  that  was  settled. 
And  the  check  would  come  from  Lou.  Fanny  would  more  than 
pay  her  share,  and  May  could  pay  off  the  mortgage  and  thus  be 
rent-free.  It  would  work  out  well;  their  expenses  here  were 
extremely  small.  Maybe  some  day  dear  Tina  and  Vernon 
would  come  and  occupy  some  of  the  empty  rooms;  May  was 
struck  with  this  thought,  and  looked  from  Steve  to  Fanny  for 
audience.  But  Fanny  was  deep  in  study,  a  somewhat  con- 
tented expression  upon  her  florid,  harsh  face,  and  Steve  was 
lightly  asleep,  his  parted  red  lips  showing  through  his  beard. 

Silence.  The  last  yellow  rays  of  sunset  dropped  from  the 
dusty  rose  bushes,  and  the  dirty  plumes  of  pampas,  and  the 
fallen  bright-red  berries  of  the  peppers. 

"Gracious,  Fan,  don't  time  bring  changes!"  May  said.  "It 
seems  only  yesterday  that  we  had  all  the  children  here,  and 
Esme's  room  and  Pa's  room  just  like  all  the  rest,  and  ice-cream 
and  layer-cakes  on  Sundays!  And  now  they're  all  gone,  Vick 
and  Lou  and  Bertie — of  course  they'll  come  back,  but  there  were 
so  many  years  when  it  didn't  seem  as  if  we'd  ever  be  separated! 
I  can  remember  when  we  just  heard  of  San  Rafael,  a  place  across 
the  bay,  where  people  picnicked.  There  was  only  one  boat  a 
day  then,  it  used  to  take  the  buggies  and  trucks  that  were  going 
up  Napa  and  Point  Reyes  way!  Don't  you  remember  the  day 
that  you  and  I  and  the  boys  and  Ma  and  Pa  came  over  here 
with  a  picnic,  and  Pa  said  he'd  like  to  have  a  home  here!  But 
that  was  more  than  thirty-five  years  ago!" 

"Lawks!"  said  Fanny,  tired,  thoughtful,  rocking  in  her  chair. 

"They  don't  seem  to  care  much,"  lamented  May  mildly; 
"Vicky  seems  to  think  of  nothing  but  Davy  and  the  baby — 
Lou's  just  lost,  and  dear  old  Bertie  almost  never  comes.  And  yet 
we've  launched  them  all  into  lives  of  their  own,  Fan!  Stephen 
and  I  never  let  our  own  plans  interfere  with  their  happiness!" 

Bright  day  still  lingered  in  the  garden,  but  the  sunlight  was 
gone.  Bobo  was  on  the  windmill  ladder,  dangling  a  tied  paper 
that  blew  idly  in  the  fitful  breeze.  The  day  had  been  warm,  but 
there  was  peace  and  quiet  and  coolness  now. 

"I  remember  the  day  Esme  was  seven,"  May  said,  slowly. 
"  Bertie  was  five,  and  Vick  four,  and  Tina  was  such  a  lovely  baby. 


486  CERTAIN  PEOPLE  OF  IMPORTANCE 

It  was  the  day  before  Lou  was  born — their  birthdays  came  to- 
gether.    And  I  remember  Ma " 

"Don't  cry,  May,"  Fanny  said  kindly,  as  her  sister's  voice 
thickened  and  was  still.  "You're  still  all  shaken  up  from  Pa's 
going." 

"It  isn't  that,"  May  said,  after  a  silence.  "But  I've  always 
felt  that  everything  would  be  different  when  Pa  died.  But 
what  with  all  of  them  in  Napa  and  Buenos  Aires  and  Sausalito 
and  dear  knows  where,  and  Alice  and  Nelly  not  coming,  and 
Bertie  not  here — it  doesn't  seem  to  make  any  difference  at  all!" 

"I  was  thinking  that,"  Fanny  mused.  "But  I  suppose  it'll 
be  like  this  to  their  children  when — well,  when  you  and  I  die, 
May!"  she  added. 

May  looked  struck. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it'll  be  like  that!"  she  agreed. 

"Do  you  remember  leaving  Saint  Joe,  Fanny?  The  oxen  we 
used  to  call  Pete  and  Lady?  Remember  the  time  Pa  said  he'd 
tan  us  if  we  didn't  quit  scraping  the  sugar — the  night  the  Indians 
were  after  us?" 

"Lawks!"  Fanny  murmured  thoughtfully,  with  a  remem- 
bering face.  "Can  you  remember  Ma  greasing  Pa's  and  Uncle 
Lem's  boots  with  mutton  tallow,  back  in  Polo?" 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  said  May,  softly,  shaking  her  head. 

They  sat  on  in  silence.  The  garden  grew  gradually  dark, 
and  little  Reuben  Crabtree  the  second  came  up  to  the  porch 
and  roused  Uncle  Steve,  who  was  dozing  there,  with  a  whispered 
suggestion  of  French  toast  for  supper.  Fanny  and  May  pres- 
ently saw  the  yellow  streak  of  gaslight  flash  out  from  the  kit- 
chen, and  mingle  under  the  willows  and  peppers  with  the  soft 
brilliance  of  the  early  summer  moon. 


The  End 


6 


